The Road Ahead
by HollyBush
Summary: What if Dean had never shown up at Stanford?
1. Chapter 1

**The Road Ahead.**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, nor do I know what I'm doing. No copyright infringement is intended. I have nothing in mind but getting rid of all Supernatural-related things that are currently residing in my head and maybe, in the process, offer someone out there a semi-pleasant read. Please don't sue...it'd make me sad. Please _do_ review...it'd make my day...

**Author's Note:** I was watching the Pilot again ( gotta find a way to fill the evergrowing gap till September, n'est pas? ) and suddenly had to wonder what would've happened if Dean had chosen not to pay his brother a visit. Jess would still have died because she was in the way of Eerie-Eyes' plans for Sam (seeing as how she bound him to his applepie-life and such). I like to think Sam would've gone looking for Dean...

Chapter 1. 

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He'd thought about calling his brother.

Right after Jessica's funeral, he had sat with Simons cellphone in his hand, trying to remember Dean's number.

His own cellphone had burned up in the fire, along with anything that might've held his brothers cellphone number.

Along with everything he owned.

Along with everything that meant something.

Along with Jessica.

From the moment he'd arrived home from the library, where he'd been pulling an allnighter with a few classmates, and saw his girl pinned to the ceiling the way he knew has mother had been, the first and only thought in his head had been the single syllable of his brothers name.

The way that name had always been and probably always would be the first thing in his mind, whenever he found himself needing...anything. Someone. Dean.

He hadn't called him though.

Not because he was scared to call him or because he was afraid of rejection. He knew Dean would come running. Dean would always come running.

Nor was it because he wanted to be alone, because he really didn't want to be alone, although he didn't want to be around anyone either. Not anyone but Dean, at least and he wasn't sure whether that was because he knew his brother would understand him better, would get it, or because, no matter what happened, his brother would always be the first thing on his mind when he found himself in peril.

But he hadn't called.

In the first place, because he simply couldn't remember Dean's number and, most of all, because he hadn't been capable of calling. Hadn't been capable of anything but existing. And the fact that he _was_ existing, was right now breathing in the semi-clean Californian air at all, was purely because of Simon.

The fire had long since started to spread out when he has still been standing there, rooted to the spot, staring up the ceiling when said Simon, who was one of those classmates he'd been studying with, had suddenly appeared beside him, yelling and pulling and tugging at his arm. Sam couldn't remember being dragged out of the apartment, he could only remember staring at that ceiling and then suddenly not staring at that ceiling. Being out of the room, out of the building, out on the grass, staring at the burning building which was lighting up the nightblue sky, that suddenly seemed to hold no stars. And he remembered breaking from his friends grasp to make a dash for the door again but the fire-department had already arrived and, of course, they wouldn't let him back in.

He remembered nothing else. Nothing past that moment. Nothing past the moment of standing outside, looking up at that seemingly starless sky and knowing, actually _knowing _that his girlfriend had just burned to death.

He knew he had called Jess' parents, knew they had arrived at the appartment, where he had still been standing, (Simon behind him, talking to the police, the firemen and the paramedics), in the early hours of the morning. Knew they had hugged him, taken him with them to their hotel and booked him a room. A room he'd sat in, staring at the wall, staring at the room's phone, trying to remember Dean's number, while people knocked on his door and called that phone, trying to get him to talk to them.

Until, finally, Mrs. Moore had asked him to please open up, and this was Jessica's mother and he didn't want to be rude, so he had opened the door and accepted the coffee and had gone with them to pick a coffin, a _coffin,_ and flowers and music.

And he had gone back to the room and stared at the phone and thought of Dean, and tried to remember his number.

And then Mrs. Moore had knocked on the door again and given him another coffee and helped him pick a tie. And he went to the funeral.

He went to Jessica's funeral.

And he didn't cry.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He'd thought about calling his brother.

When he'd first realised his father wasn't sticking to their status quo of checking in right before, during and after every hunt, and therefore may be in trouble and therefore may need help, he had sat in the drivers seat of the Impala and stared at his phone.

He had stared at the name of his little brother as it lit up the screen in eye-searing blue and considered pressing the 'call' button.

He hadn't.

He had stared at it, decided Sam probably wouldn't pick up anyway, put his phone back in his pocket, went out to find the nearest diner, sat down at a rundown table, ordered a burger (double cheese, extra onions), and whipped out his phone again, planning on doing another thorough round of staring at his phone and thinking about calling his brother.

Then came the coordinates.

When he first saw them, the first thing he'd felt was relief. He knew they had to come from his father. Couldn't be anyone else. Practically nobody had this number and even if they did, how many would text him coordinates?

No, it was his father. No wasting time on words, just a simple instruction. 'the place to be'. It's the way John Winchester did business.

The second thing he'd felt was apprehension, even more so than before, because why didn't he call? He must know Dean was worried. He'd just up and left, for cryin' out loud and hadn't checked in in days. Why didn't he just call?

The third thing he'd experienced was doubt. He knew (well, okay, he didn't actually, factually _know_, but he was definitely betting on it) his brother wouldn't answer his phone. In the past four years, he had exactly responded to Dean _once_. And that had been when Dean had just shown up on his doorstep, demanding his help. Not willing to take 'no' for an answer. Chances were pretty big he wouldn't even check the voicemail.

That left doing the same thing he did two years ago: just showing up.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He wanted to go to Sam and ask for his help. He wanted to go to Sam and have him help find their father. Mostly, he just really wanted to see his brother.

Two years.

Without a word.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Suddenly, the funeral was over and people were drinking coffee and having cake and tuna sandwiches and talking about the economy and the weather and 'how 'bout those Mets?' and he had sat on the sidewalk staring at a phone.

Trying to remember a number.

Until he realised he'd never ever revive Dean's number from the depths of his memory, because it had probably never been there in the first place. And then he'd sat there for a few more hours, contemplating calling his father. He'd rejected the notion every time it had run across his mind. And it had run there many times.

Because everytime he realised he couldn't call Dean, he thought about calling his father. Then he would he realise he didn't know his father's number either. And even though he probably wouldn't have called him anyway (because he didn't want to talk to him but he didn't want to call just to ask for Dean's number either. Not after not talking to him for four years. And then he realised it had been four years since he had talked to his father, and two since he had talked to Dean and then he'd try, again, to remember Dean's number and he'd fail and he'd think about calling John and realised he couldn't and...) , even though he didn't _want _to call him, he got mad.

He got mad at the library for not allowing cellphones.

Because not allowing them had resulted in Sam not taking it with him, which resulted in Jess not being able to reach him and that may have resulted in him not being there when she needed him and that resulted in his beloved Jess dying, which resulted in him having to go to her funeral and then in him sitting here, desperately trying to remember a cellphone number he wouldn't need to remember if he had just taken his damn cellphone with him.

And if he had just taken it with him, in spite of it being prohibited, he may have had a chance to help Jess and if not, at least he'd have his phone now, and Dean's number and then he wouldn't be sitting here, desperately wishing for it all to be a nightmare.

Desperately wishing for his brother to show up.

Desperately wishing to not be sitting here.

And then he got mad at himself.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Two years.

When he'd left him behind two years ago, he'd promised himself he wouldn't call on Sam again. And he hadn't. But God, it had been hard. It wasn't hard to not ask him to come help him out. It wasn't hard to work those jobs alone. Harder, yeah, 'cause he was alone and that limited the options but he was good at what he did.

No, the hardest thing wasn't doing his job without his partner.

The hardest thing was living his life without his brother.

There was no contact. At all. Dean had sometimes called and sent him birthdaycards and Christmaspresents and stupid cards from the ridiculous places he visited when working for the first two years, but he had never gotten a response and after he left two years ago, he hadn't tried to contact his brother again.

Sam wanted a normal life, one that didn't include anything hunt- and therefore family related, and he deserved it. He deserved it like no one else and he was finally on his way to what he so badly wanted. He was doing good in school, he had an apartment he could call 'home' and he had his girlfriend.

Jessica, he knew her name was. Dean had never met her but he'd seen the pictures in Sam's wallet and the smile on his little brothers face as he had mentioned her, albeit briefly. Dean wanted to respect that. He wanted to give him that.

So he'd left and he hadn't tried to contact Sam again.

He hated it and it hurt everytime he looked at the passengerseat of his car and felt the pang of Sam's absence but it was worth it. Sam was happy. He had what he wanted. What he deserved. And Dean wouldn't be the one to ruin it for him. Ever.

So, he put away his phone, ignored the instinct to drive straight to Palo Alto, finished his burger and searched for a motel. He'd go check those damn coordinates, drive to wherever they pointed him, do his job and look for his father. Alone.

He damn well hoped that applepie was freakin' worth it!

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He stood on the trampled grass where, mere days before he had walked home and where, even less time before, firemen had carried Jess over to the ambulance as they tried to hose down the screaming flames, and stared at what was left of his apartment.

What was left of his life.

His applepie life...

There was nothing.

He turned and walked back to the car he had parked alongside the road.

Jessica's car. An old and battered Honda Civic. An old, battered and ugly Honda Civic. She had loved her car. Claimed she loved it all the more _because_, and not in spite of it being so damn ugly.Because it made it easier to drive. Less scared to damage it. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. Stupid ugly car.

He'd taken Jess' father to retrieve the car from where it had stood near the apartment, (the keys had burned up, of course but Mr. Moore had always kept an extra set, just like he did to the apartment. "Just in case". )

They had driven the car back to the hotel, where Mrs Moore was busy packing up. They'd be leaving the next day. They had asked him to come with them but he had politely, though immediately, refused. Had said he didn't want to burden them, that he needed some time. That he'd be fine.

The thought of going with them, Jess' grieving parents, made him choke on his breath.

They hadn't once asked him where his family was and he couldn't help wonder what they must have thought. The first time he'd met them, they'd asked about his parents, of course and he'd said his mother had died in a fire, that his father and brother were mechanics back in Lawrence and that he very rarely spoke to either of them.

They had never asked again.

Mr. Moore had given him the keys to the Civic, saying they wouldn't need it anyway (meaning they didn't want it) and that, this way, he'd have a means of transportation to visit them whenever he wanted, in case he changed his mind.

He had taken the keys, knowing they would never take the car with them and he didn't want it sold or melt to scratch or anything else his girl would have hated to see happening to her car. That stupid ugly car.

That was yesterday.

Now, as he stood staring at the leftovers of his life, he wondered what the hell he was gonna do. He couldn't stand here forever. Somebody was bound to call the police or, worse, some paramedic team, if he'd stay there.

He walked around the car and sunk into the front seat.

Mrs. Moore had cleaned out the car, removing most of her daughters belongings, like her sunglasses and lipstick but she had left the things that seemed less personal. The cd's, the pens, those sticky caramel-thingies she always had around. The things that were, in fact, the most personal.

The most powerful.

He stared at the cd-player and pushed 'play'.

Led Zeppelin.

"Stairway to Heaven".

He choked and turned it off.

He didn't cry.

Instead, he swallowed, took a deep breath and put the keys in the ignition.

He had no idea where he was gonna go but he knew exactly what he'd be looking for.

Dean.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Is this something you'd like to see a second chapter of? Please let me know...A 'yes' or 'no' will suffice... 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Road Ahead. **

**Disclaimer: Still not. I suck at scheming...**

* * *

SNSNSNSNSNSN 

Chapter 2.

Typical. The moment he decided he wasn't going to bother his brother with his issues again, his father had to go and sent him coordinates that led him to California.

He'd arrived in Jericho just a few hours before and had immediately searched for a motel. The same hotel his father had rented out a room for the month, as it turned out.

"_You guys havin' a family-reunion or something?"_

The moment he'd fully realised the meaning of those words, he'd felt the immediate relief of the weight leaving his shoulders. His dad was fine. Had just been caught up in whatever hunt he was doing here and he'd sent the coordinates because he didn't want to focus on anything else. He'd probably been in the middle of a stake-out, which were known to last for hours and hours. Or he'd been busy tracking the monster-of-the-moment and he didn't want to tip it off by making any sort of sound.

Obviously, he needed Dean there for one reason or another. To help him out with the research. Talk to the locals. Whatever. But it wasn't serious.

Yeah, his dad was fine. He could probably be found slumped over the table, Jim, Jack and Jose for company, or stretched out on the bed, sleeping it off.

Both the hunt and the liqour. He was fine.

He had almost convinced himself and he had actually been able to hold onto that thought right up until he'd walked (allright, broke and entered) into his father's room.

He wasn't slumped over the table or sprawled over the bed.

He wasn't fine.

The walls were covered with pieces of paper, print-outs and newspapers and there were halfeaten burgers and half-empty cups of coffee everywhere but the man hadn't been there in days.

At first, he figured he was still just caught up in the hunt, would return soon enough to pour himself the inevitable drink and gruffly let Dean know he was fine, killed the bitch and then scold him for worrying so much over a forgotten phonecall when he should be focusing on the hunt instead and, for God's sake, didn't he know better?

Then he'd noticed the fact that his father's duffelbag was gone, there were no clothes draped on the bed or over the chair and there were no personal items left anywhere.

Except...

The journal.

His father's journal. The one he would never leave behind, would never leave on a hunt with, would never forget.

His single most valuable possession.

Left on the table, underneath a stack of newspapers.

With Dean's name written on an empty page, linked to another set of coordinates.

The weight settled back onto his shoulders.

Where, for fuck's sake, was his father?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He crossed the border into Nevada without noticing. He'd been driving for hours, staring straight ahead. He hadn't once stopped for food, for coffee, for a bathroombreak and he hadn't turned the radio back on. He'd stared ahead and drove the car. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know where his brother was. He had absolutely no clue, whatsoever. And he didn't care. He wanted to find his brother, he knew. He knew because he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He knew because he could feel a tug somewhere in his body ( maybe it was his heart), that meant 'Dean'. He knew he had to find his brother. It was some sort of cerebral instinct.

But he didn't care right now. Right now, he would just drive. He would drive and, somewhere, sometime, he'd rent out a room for the night at a random motel and sleep and get up and drive again.

He would find his brother.

Eventually.

Right now, he needed this.

He needed this search.

To be numb, to be still.

He needed to not be _anything _right now.

So he stared ahead and drove.

And he didn't cry.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Okay, so Joseph Welch had cheated on his wife.

Not that he'd admitted to any such thing. He had done nothing more than begrudgingly answer all of Dean's questions with a sigh because he had already answered the exact same questions just a few days ago to another guy.

"Said he was writing a story, or something, about my wife's death or whatever" 

"Right, well, we're working together. And I just need to check the facts, you know. Make sure he doesn't quote you saying something you never did. 's for your own benefit, really."

His father had been here, asking the same questions.

This didn't surprise Dean. In fact, it's what he had counted on. Not that he was now any wiser on his father's whereabouts but this job was as good a place as any to start and try to catch his father's trail. And, no matter the circumstances, this case needed solving, those people needed saving and business was business. And if there was one thing his father had taught him, it was never to neglect the job.

So, he had sorted through all his dad's information, researched, tracked down Constance' husband and asked the same questions.

And probably drew the same conclusion.

Being a skilled liar himself, Dean knew when he was being lied to and Joseph Welch had been lying through his ass when he'd said he and Constance had had a happy marriage.

He could say and believe whatever he chose to; he had been unfaithful to his wife and, in reaction, she had not only killed her children and then flung herself off a bridge, she had also taken up the habit of killing innocent by-drivers. Or, as innocent as they came, anyway. And now Dean was going to have to put an end to it.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Death was quiet.

Eerily calm.

It came in and took what was loved and left you on your knees while your world spinned out of control.

And it was quiet.

So _he_ was quiet. He was completely unaware of anything, even as all his senses seemed to be on high alert. Every single muscle in his body was tensed, poised. As if on the verge of convulsing.

And at the same time, he was completely numb.

He noticed all the trees he passed, read all the signs but he wasn't really aware of them. It was as if...as if death itself was holding onto him, pulling on one side, while life held tight on the other side and he was being pulled in two directions.

He was aware of both of them, could feel them on his body. Was strangely aware of every step he took, while he walked towards the receptiondesk of a highwaymotel. Felt every single step jar his entire body.

His psych 101 would probably tell him that was because his entire focus was on his physical status, so that he didn't have to think. And that, eventually, his mind would start working again and he'd experience it all again and he'd remember it all and then he'd break down.

He knew all that.

It changed nothing.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He drove his car back to the motel. It was still light out and, true to form, she only seemed to operate in the dark.

He shook his head in frustration at Joseph and Constance and the apparent inability of some men to remain faithful and the apparent stupidity of those men to fall for a dead chick and pressed down on the gas.

He wanted a shower and a beer and a good night's sleep.

And he wanted to kill that bitch.

And Dean Winchester had his priorities straight.

She was going down.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He felt his body follow every step, he felt the metal of the doorknob pressing into his palm and he felt the muscles of his mouth pull as he answered the receptionist's inquiring questions.

He felt nothing.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

There.

By the side of the road, right in front of the abandoned house, was a car. Damn ugly too. Ford Fiesta. Whoever it was in there almost deserved to die, for buying such a piece of white-picket-fenced crap.

He parked his car on the same side of said road, got out to make a selection out of his trusty array of weapons, and started walking to the vehicle, where, so far, no scary sounds or actions had been occuring. Or so he hoped.

He was nearing the car and on his way of reaching for the handle when he heard a scream. A male scream.

Sounded like Constance Welch had found another unfaithful husband to wreak revenge on.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The silence was screaming.

He had never noticed before how loud everything was when you made no sounds at all. The sound of keys turning in the lock. The sound of the shower running, the sound of a bag being put on the table. It was deafening.

He felt every noise pierce his body. Felt every action burn his skin.

And he found it oddly comforting.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Idiot.

Stupid, Ford Fiesta-driving, idiot.

The guy had only stared at Dean as he fired at Constance, or what used to be Constance, and yelled at the guy to "leave the damn car and run!"

Dean had eventually had to grab the moron by his coat with one arm, while firing at Constance with the other and pull him out of the driversseat. The man had stayed on the ground, mouth slack and stared as his rescuer had gotten in the car himself.

Constance had immediately latched onto Dean, seething in anger, and he had, admittedly, been in quite a pinch when the guy had suddenly had a moment of clarity, jumped up and screamed at him that she apparently wanted to go home "or something...whatever." The distraction had sufficed. The ignition had still been on and he had clamped his foot down on the gas and let the car sear forward, right through the frontdoor and into what once had probably been the livingroom. The rest had of the action had been one big blur.

Constance had roamed around, talking about never being able to go home, then the ghosts of her creepy-ass children had come down and had taken her with them in a whirl of earth and wind and water and fire and the next thing he knew there was a 45 year old mug in his face, asking him if he'd mind helping him get his car back out, so his wife wouldn't notice.

He had driven the car right back outside, clapped the guy on the shoulders, advised him to surprise his wife with a new car and walked back to his own set of wheels.

Now, he sat with a cold beer in his hand, holding it up against a gash across the left side of his face and stared at the coordinates in his fathers journal.

There hadn't been another sign of the man and it seemed there was nothing to do, but to look up where this set would instruct him to go, and to go.

He couldn't help the slight sense of panic that once again came over him.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He stared at himself in the mirror.

There was nothing to see.

Nothing different.

Only proved once more that looks could be deceiving because he didn't feel like he used to. He didn't feel at all. Nothing but the silence and the absolute and utter nothingness. And he had never felt that before. He had never been like this before. He had never before been nothing.

So why did he look the same?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

A weary sigh escaped his lips.

Blackwater Ridge Colorado.

New job it was then.

* * *

I don't intend to follow all the hunts we've seen on tv or anything. I just need to borrow some stuff for reasons that will later on become clear. 

Share your opinion? I'd be forever in your debt...


	3. Chapter 3

**The Road Ahead.**

**Disclaimer:** Oh, blah blah. The usual.

**Author's note:** okay, I'll try and keep this short. I have to explain that, though I am using some stuff from the actual show, I do not intend on keeping this up. I also changed the timeline a bit. Sped everything up, if you will. Just so you know.

Also, I'm sorry about the lack of updates. I've been working round the clock to both make money and salvage what's left of my academic career.

**Major shoutout to PookbearD, who managed to beta this chapter, in spite of being insanely busy. Thanks so much, Pook! I owe you. Big. **

**If you're actually still reading this, you have my eternal love. I owe you, too. **

**Holly.**

Chapter 3.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_November, 2003. Stanford, Palo Alto. _

_Rain would fall soon. _

_Clouds were packing together. The air was heavy and black. The forebodings of a thunderstorm. _

_Sam sat at his desk, squirming in his seat. An essay on polycentric cultural norms.demanding his attention. Jessica had gone to the movies with Rebecca, claiming she wanted to see Johnny Depp in full actionmode. _

_With a kiss and an offhand "So you can study in peace. I wouldn't want to be the cause of an A-...after all", she had slammed the door, too loud as always, and left him to his work. Alone with his books, his laptop and his thoughts. _

_Thoughts that were nowhere near that essay. What was it about the air, right before a thunderstorm, that made him edgy? _

_He shook his head and got up to make himself a cup of coffee. On second thought, maybe an entire pot would be wiser. Jess would be back in less than an hour and he had done not even half of what he had wanted to do. _

_He glanced over at where his phone lay abandoned on top of the television. _

_Where his phone lay abandoned because he had put it there, trying to ignore the phonecalls that had been coming in today. _

_Dean's phonecalls._

_Why had Dean called? Dean never called. Or, well...almost never, anyway._

_He had stopped when he realised Sam wouldn't respond. He still sent cards and birthdaypresents but he didn't call. _

_So, why now? Why? And why did it bother him so much?_

_He shook his head again, this time at another frustration and fumbled around with the coffee. He needed rest, dammit, and peace and quiet. He needed to concentrate. _

_Impatiently wating on the coffeemaker (was that thing broken or something? It had never been this slow), he walked over to the televisionset and picked up his phone. Biting his lip, he looked at the screen. _

'_4 missed calls'. _

'_1 new voicemail message'_

_His mind screaming, his nerves on end, he let his fingers hover near the 'call' button. _

_And pressed down on it. _

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005.

The road was quiet.

His head was not.

For the last couple of hours, he had tried to remain silent. Remain numb. But memories kept popping up. Memories that had nothing to do with anything happening _now_.

Ones that he'd tried to forget he had.

They kept showing up, not bothering to knock, not waiting to be invited in. No, just sweeping right through, leaving naught but debris in their wake.

Each memory placed him back into a life he had left behind. Took him back to words he'd forced to the back of his mind. Looks he never wanted to remember. People he had let down. People that had let him down.

They forced him to revisit a world he no longer lived in.

They were flashes of places that didn't matter anymore. Times that held no relevance any longer. And people. Person. One.

Brother.

He wished he remembered only Jessica.

But he remembered only Dean.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005, Blackwater Ridge, Colorado. 

The woods. He was in the woods. His father had sent him into the gddamn woods!! If he ever found the man, he would damn well kill him himself. He had followed his dad's coordinates, like the man had known he would, like a good son, like a good soldier, and now here he was; standing in the middle of freakin' nowhere, chasing some beast-slash-demon-slash-animal that had made it it's specialty to maul, maim and murder unsuspecting campers and leave their families in tears and despair.

He'd gotten from the Ranger's visitors centre to the Collins' house without any problems. No grudge, no bad feelings, no trouble. He was on a job, would always be on a job and he had had no more qualms about this one than he'd have 'bout any other one. But then he'd talked to Hailey, seen that familiar weight of responsibility in her eyes. Had seen the panic, the desperation, the unadulterated fear for her family. And then he saw more than just another victim, another damsel. He saw more than the attractive girl who obviously knew her shit when it came to cars. He saw the sister now. The older sibling, whose responsibility it was to keep the younger ones safe.

He saw himself.

He'd heard every word she'd said in his own voice and when he'd left the house, promising to be there in the morning, ready for a search mission, he couldn't help but feel like he was on a mission to retrieve one of his own familymembers.

And he couldn't help but hate his father.

Hate the man for sending him here, on this job. For sending him on any of these jobs. The ones he'd done and the ones he would still do. He hated him for making Sammy leave and then taking off himself. He hated him for leaving him alone.

And he hated him for everything he felt when he thought about the brother he'd be looking for tomorrow.

The brother that wasn't his.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_November 2003, Stanford, Palo Alto. _

_No answer. _

_Just...great. _

_He sighed and let it ring._

_Nothing. _

_Real nice._

_Looked like he wouldn't get out of listening to the voicemail message then._

_He hated listeting to his brother's voicemail messages. Always had. He couldn't tell you why, exactly, he just did. It was the distanced tone, maybe, that Dean always used when he left a message. That tone that conveyed he hated having to call you, didn't **want** to have to call you, hated that you weren't picking up, hated that he needed you. But that he needed you. That damn tone, combined with his voice, his achingly familiar voice that made it hurt in those depths of his heart, he didn't think even Jess would ever touch. That voice that said he was fine, would be fine, was always fine. That voice that said he wasn't._

_He braced himself, called his voicemail and felt his heart skip a beat when Dean let out a breath that he'd apparently been holding._

"_Sam. Pick up. 'm working a case in your sunshinstate. I'm fine, but...look.. there's something wrong here. I...I'm not sure exactly what, but I'm not sure...I'm not sure I should be doing this alone. These people are in danger, Sam. I wouldn't be calling you ... Call me back when you get this, okay? Just...I might need your help here..I'm ...just call me back this time, Sam."_

_He didn't move but he couldn't stop the shiver that ran through him. Dean had called four times. And left a voicemail, at that. A serious one. One that had Sam immediately fighting nausea. _

_Four. _

_That was a lot, four. _

_Probably not to chat about sports and women either. Not that had ever happened. __**Ever.**__ Thank God. He hadn't want to have those conversations with his brother even when he still lived with him._

_He was probably fine. Dean was good at the job. Knew how to kill practically anything. Could take care of himself._

_But still...four times was a lot. _

_He tried again. No answer. Voicemail. _

_He almost growled in frustration._

"_I call back for once and you don't answer! _

_You know, if you call me four times and I call you back, you answer, you idiot! You don't just ...Damn it, Dean! Pick up your phone!"_

_Okay, he probably shouldn't have done that. Stupid voicemail. Now he definitely wouldn't hear from his brother anytime soon. Dean hated being spoken to like that, and he didn't tolerate it from anyone. Except their father, of course._

_He walked to the kitchen, where that damn coffeemaker had finally finished brewing and poured himself a mug full. Maybe he should just call again, leave another voicemail. Just to say..._

_Sorry? Sorry he hadn't called back sooner? Sorry he hadn't picked up in the first place? Sorry he hadn't seen his brother in two years?_

_He couldn't say that. well, maybe the first one, but not the other ones. He was sorry. He really was. He had been away from Dean, as much as Dean had been away from him and he'd missed him, in a way he hadn't thought was humanly possible, every day. Still. Always. _

_But he couldn't say sorry for something he believed he needed to do. He didn't want to not talk to his brother, not see him, not know if he was alright, but it was the price he had to pay for the life he led. The life he __**wanted **__to lead. He couldn't keep in touch and not want to go back. He couldn't see his brother and not want to go with him. Because he didn't want the damn circuslife, but he did want his brother. The brother who had been the only resemblance to something of a home, throughout every single day of his young existence. A home that he still missed. And everytime he saw or heard anything that had to do with his family, with Dean, he felt the pull that tied him to his brother, that sore spot in the left side of his chest that called to him. That spot called Dean. _

_So, no, he couldn't say that. He couldn't apologise for wanting to protect himself, no matter how screwed up it seemed. He couldn't apologise, couldn't say he was sorry for something he felt he needed to do, even if he __**was**__ sorry._

_Huh. Nice voicemail __**that**__ would make. _

For what seemed like the millionth time, he shook his head and tried to clear his mind. Dean was fine. He'd know if he wasn't. He'd just know. Right?

Okay...coffee, essay, concentrate.

_Dean..._

_Damn it all!_

_Maybe he should just try one more time. Just see what came out. Anything better than this. It would drive him crazy and then nothing would come of that essay and he didn't need an 'F', on top of it all and...why did his mind always ramble when under stress and..._

_A knock on the wood of his frontdoor forced his train of thought to a stop. He looked at the clock. It could be Simon, coming over to complain about the shitload of work professor Denman bestowed upon them. He did that a lot. Could be Jess, arriving home early, having once again forgotten her keys. Or having lost them, to be more specific. _

_He set down his coffeemug and walked over to the door. He pulled it open, fully expecting his girlfriend to be standing there, soaked through and through, pouting. What he didn't expect was the sight that greeted him; standing on his welcoming mat , soaked to the bone, wasn't his girlfriend. Or Simon. _

_It was his father. _

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005,

He still had no idea where he was going.

And he still didn't care.

What he did care about was getting rid of that stupid memory that just wouldn't leave him alone. He was fed up with it. He just needed some time. Some sleep. Some peace. But he wasn't gonna find that if his mind kept coming up with flashes and images of a life he no longer cared about. Why did he remember this?

Or, better yet, why didn't he remember other stuff?

Why didn't he remember Jess? Why couldn't he, for the life of him, remember what she'd worn the first time he'd taken her out to dinner? Why was his mind incapable of conjuring up the little dance she'd done, when she'd passed a test she was sure she'd failed. Why could he not recall the last words she's spoken to him?

Why?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005, Blackwater Ridge Colorado.

It didn't feel right. _He_ didn't feel right.

This hunt. It felt...well...there was something off. He didn't know whether it was the camping (which, yes, he hated with a gusto), or the fact that he didn't know exactly what he was hunting for (and that old guy's story hadn't exactly been much help in the nervescalming area) or that maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he was out here, looking for a little brother that wasn't _his_.

This hunt was dragging up stuff he'd intended to keep buried forever. Feelings he didn't want to relive. And questions.

Was his little brother alright? Where was he and what was he doing? What did he eat and how were his grades? Did he have enough friends, was he ever lonely? Was he doing okay? Was he happy? Did he miss his family? Did he miss _him_?

Endless questions that where always there, taking up space in the darkest corners of his mind, his heart, but that now seemed to fight their way to the surface.

And he couldn't answer any of them.

What he could do however, was make sure that Hailey and her brothers would never have to wonder the same things. He could go out there and kill the damn thing that was doing this and get these kids home. He could make sure at least _one_ little brother was okay.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_November 2003, Stanford, Palo Alto._

_He stared at his father, as he stood there, shivering in the cold, soaked from the rain that had just, minutes before, burst loose, looking at him. _

" _You not even gonna invite me in?"_

_The words sounded empty, yet full. Bitter, but not on purpose. He broke from his shock. _

"_No..uh...I mean, Yeah..." He stepped back and gestured inside, "Come in"_

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005, Colorado.

In a way, the break had been easier that night.

And he remembered nothing but the grief. The grief of losing something so precious, it was like losing a piece of yourself. Something you never knew you _could_ loose, until you lost it. Something you never thought would break you until you felt your core shatter.

Why did he keep remembering that? Why wouldn't it leave him alone. Why did it keep coming back to that one night? That one night where he'd proven exactly that what he'd been telling himself for two long years: that he wasn't Sammy anymore.

He hated that memory. He hated the way it made him feel, the way he remembered everything in painfully colourful details, the way every single word spoken that night rang through his mind, louder than a foghorn.

The way his brother had been. Or hadn't been, to be exact.

The way he hadn't been Dean anymore.

The way he hadn't been Sammy's big brother, anymore.

But mostly he hated how vividly he remembered how much more final the goodbye had been that night.

Because Dean had no longer been Dean.

So he had no longer been Sammy.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005, Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.

Were they freaking kidding him with this? A Wendigo? A Wen-freakin'-digo?

A human-turned-cannabalist-turned- monster?

Great. Just fan-freaking-tastic. Exactly what he needed. No provisions (maybe Hailey'd had a point there), a sister who would do seriously anything to get her brother back (and maybe she had a point there too), a skeptic guide who was just a tad too enthusiastically swinging round his gun, and absolutely no idea how he was gonna do this, exactly.

He'd do it, of course. He'd get the job done. He was 'Dean Winchester, life saver, hunter extraordinaire'. He got the people saved and the monster killed. He always got the job done.

Only question was: how would he get out of it?

He wasn't gonna put either Ben or Hailey in danger. He didn't have that same issue really, where Roy was concerned, but him he just didn't trust and he had practically no supplies.

Alright, he'd start by putting up some of those Anasazi symbols. Oughta keep 'm safe, through the night at least. Then, he'd think of a way to get him _in_ that cave, Tommy _out_ of it, and everybody back to safety.

Yep. He was a hero, alright.

A strapping rocksalt wielding hero.

If only he had his trusty sidekick with him.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_November 2003, Stanford, Palo Alto._

_He watched as John awkwardly moved around, towards the livingroom and came to a stop in the centre of it. Sam wasn't sure that was because he wasn't sure of what to do with himself, because he was afraid of getting the couch wet or because he wanted to intimidate Sam._

"_Sit down. You..uh...I'll...I'll get you some coffee."_

_He spoke too fast, out of breath. He went into the small kitchen and poured his father some of the coffee. Strong and black. The way he preferred it. Or...he always had, but he wasn't sure of that was still the case. It had been two years, after all. Maybe John had switched to latte's, or cappuchino...or...okay. He'd just give him the black coffee. He couldn't imagine John Winchester drinking cappuchino's anyway. Not tough enough. Didn't go with the big bad hunter-persona. Or with the Marine._

"_Here."_

_He reached out and when his father didn't make an effort to take it out of his hands, he put it on the table and then sat down on the ragged chair opposite the couch. _

_The oldest Winchester still hadn't said a word beyond that earlier sentence and the silence was beginning to wear Sam down. _

"_So...what's happening, dad? What's the emergency?"_

_John looked up and, for a second, he saw a glimpse of the father he knew was in there.. The one who wanted to spare him what was about to come._

_The moment passed however, and Sam saw the harshness return to the hunter's eyes as he straightened._

"_It's Dean."_

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005.

Why did it keep coming back to this? Why did it keep coming back to that fucking night? That one night, when he'd walked out on his brother, let the proverbial ties snap and left Sammy behind?

Why?

Why did it keep coming back to Dean?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2005, Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.

Done.

Another monster killed, another victim saved.

Another job complete.

Bring on the Mariachi band.

He'd just returned to his hotelroom, after making sure the Collins siblings would be okay. He'd plopped down on his bed, had let himself fall into the semi-soft matras and closed his eyes.

God, he was tired.

Every muscle in his body ached, his head felt as if it was about to explode and his eyes would not open, no matter the amount of effort he put into it.

Or maybe he wasn't really trying.

This damn hunt left him more shaken up than he'd anticipated and he couldn't fight off the sense of melancholy that had come over him, seeing Hailey, Tommy and Ben together.

And then the bitterness had settled in.

He'd been able to ignore most of the latter, telling himself none of this was Sam's fault, none of it had ever been, but the melancholy stayed. Settled in the pit of his stomach and refused to leave.

Fact was: he wasn't feeling too good.

Right...enough emo-crap.

He would take a quick shower, find his cleanest dirty clothes (he should really do some laundry somday soon. Not today. But soon.) and head out and find someplace to eat. Someplace that served alcohol, preferably.

He'd do all that.

In a minute.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

It was when he sat down, for the first time in hours that he would never be able to remember, that it happened.

A flash of light, bright and violent, was the first thing he felt. White and radiant and skullsplittingly painful.

A screaming pain from his left to his right ear, the second. A sharp stab, surging through his head, piercing what felt like every single one of his nerves.

He pressed his hands against his eyes, in a useless attempt to force away the pain but he only felt the material of the bedlinnens scrape against his back, as he slid down the bed, onto the floor.

The last thing he saw before he passed out was the face of a young blond woman, pressing herself against a window, her lips parted in a scream of agonizing terror...

* * *

Well...another chapter done. Bare with me for just the tiniest little bit longer?

They will get together soon. Promise. For those who are actually reading my story...review? Please? Pretty please? Please? I won't beg...


	4. Chapter 4

**The Road Ahead. **

**Disclaimer:** It's all yours, Mr Kripke.

**Thanks to PookbearD, who **_**does**_** know how to spell. **

**Author's Note:** It's been a while, I know. A collapsed roof and flooded basement will do that to ya.  To make up for it, I bring you this fairly long chapter. Please don't forget to review??

* * *

**Chapter 4. **

The highway disappeared under the wheels of the old battered Honda, as it ate up the miles with alarming speed. After awakening on the dusty floor of his motelroom, he had sat, frozen on the spot, staring at the wall as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Nothing came. He had absolutely no idea what had occured, and no ideas as to why it had happened to him. After a while however, and he wouldn't be able to tell you now if it had been hours or mere minutes, he'd had to acknowledge that nothing was going to come in the means of an explanation if he would remain seated on this dusty floor in this rundown motel, by the side of yet another highway. So, he had grabbed his bag and, without thinking it through, had gotten in his car.

He wasn't sure of where he was going, but he knew he had to do _something._

He wouldn't have thought it possible that he would care about anything at all at this point, but here it was. He'd have thought it impossible that he would purposefully be driving somewhere, but here he was.

The only thing he was sure of right now was that his mind could not get rid of the image of that woman, pressing her hands against the windows in a fruitless attempt to escape whatever was threatening her. Her mouth opened in a scream, her eyes wide in unadulterated fear.

Why he could so clearly recall details like this, from something that had so unexpectedly and quickly flashed through his head, was beyond him. For days now, he had been incapable of thinking about anything but Jessica on that ceiling, and unable to remember anything but Dean as he had been two years ago. And now, for some reason, only clear to higher powers with a seriously twisted sense of humor, he was on the road, with something else than his girlfriend or his brother on his mind.

He couldn't ban the image of the woman from his mind and knew, without a doubt, though still unclear as to _why_ exactly, that he would never be able to, unless he found a way to help her.

Like he had at that funeral, and several times after, he bit his lip, trying to bring back the digits of Deans number from the depths of his mind, but, like he had then, came up empty. He wasn't going to remember that number. He knew that. He also knew he had to keep trying, if only to keep himself occupied, as he stepped up the gas a bit more.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

A day like any other. Just like the one before this one. Just like the next one would be.

He had arrived in Nebraska two days ago, after having been on the road a few hours too many, looking for a place to eat, sleep and recuperate. That damn wendigo back in Colorado had left more scars than he would ever be likely to acknowledge and he needed some downtime. Some time to think about things. Do some soulsearching. He needed to think and work out his issues.

Which was exactly why he was surfing the web for a new hunt.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sometimes, when you try too hard to remember something, snippets of things that might somehow be related to what you're so desperately trying to recall, come drifting to the surface, only to disappear again when you realise it will not bring you any closer to what you're looking for. Sometimes, other stuff comes rearing up as well. Stuff that has nothing to do with what you're after, but have somehow found a way to your minds eye. Usually, all these thoughts are mulled over, groaned at, thought over again, cursed at and marinated once more, only to eventually be dismissed.

Sam, who had experienced the abovementioned phenomenon more than once during his academic career, was not currently blessed with any of this. No matter how hard he tried to remember Deans number, absolutely nothing came to mind. There were no combinations of numbers that appeared in his head, that he could dismiss as an old highschool locker combination ( and he had had a lot of lockercombinations. He sometimes thought that was why he was so good at memorizing what seemed like entire books. He had had to memorize so many codes, digits, numbers and procedures, that a book on corporate law barely held a challenge), no old telephonenumbers from friends from school, collegues of his father, or even the goddamned pizzaplace around the corner of his apartment. Nothing.

How the hell was he supposed to help this woman, who was incessantly screaming for help in his head, when he hadn't slightest clue as to where to go, who to contact, and where to start?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The newspaper had included nothing abnormal, strange, weird or anything else that might be, in one way or another, even remotely related to the supernatural. The local bar had brought up nothing but the waitress' telephone number and the internet was providing him with absolutely nothing useful.

Was it possible that he had hit the one town in the United States of America were nothing was out of the ordinary?

Nothing strange, nothing otherworldly. That was freaky all on its own, there. There _had_ to be something here. Anything. A monster to chase, a bad guy to kill. A person to save.

There had to be. Otherwise, what was he doing here?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The interstate was quieter than he would have thought. Which suited him just fine, since it meant that could drive just a tad faster. He still couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this before. That it hadn't even, not once, occurred to him.

He was supposed to be a pretty smart guy. A fairly good hunter, too.

His father would be ashamed. Not to mention pissed as hell.

After all, John Winchester had, in all those years on the road, in all those years of training, told his sons so many times, had made them repeat it so endlessly, that it shouldn't have been possible that he forget.

Winchester rule nr 1: We do what we do and we shut up about it.

Winchester rule nr 2: Watch each others backs.

Winchester rule nr 3: When in trouble: go to Pastor Jim.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He'd never admit it, but Dean Winchester knew himself better than most people did. Even at 26, he was painfully aware of his flaws and the effect these had on the people around him. The people he loved. It was one of the reasons he kept away from relationships too intimate and it was the only reason he hadn't raced his car to California yet to go and get his brother.

He didn't like being alone. He'd always known that. His own company made him edgy. It confronted him with things he'd rather ignore and it took away what had been his purpose, his fate, for as long as he could remember: protecting his family.

He needed his father and brother around, together, to feel whole. He'd learned that when Sam had up and left four years ago, leaving his family behind, in search of a different life. A better life. One that didn't include his family.

He fell apart, lost control of all inside him and lost himself, without them. _That_, he was learning now.

When Sam had slammed the door behind him, Dean had felt his world shatter, His insides screaming, his head spinning. Still, he had managed to hold on. He'd known his little brother had never meant to hurt anyone and deserved this life he wanted. He'd had the job, and he'd had his father. He hadn't been alone.

Today, as he sat behind the wheel of the only home he'd ever known, driving towards another small town, where a job probably _wasn't _waiting, he was, as often happened when he found himself alone, confronted with yet another piece of truth about himself he'd rather not face up to:

Without his family, without knowing they were okay, without knowing he could protect them, without them to give him purpose, he was nothing.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He parked the car in front the ancient-looking church. Not sure of what he was going to say and how Jim was going to help him, but certain that this was the best place to start, he got out and walked towards the large wooden doors.

Jim was in a small backroom of the building, bend over a huge wooden desk, with his back towards the dooropening, moving around stacks of books, muttering words the young hunter couldn't decipher, when Sam leant against the doorframe and let out a nearly silent cough, to alert the priest of his presence.

The older man, still carrying an impressive amount of books and papers, turned around and was met with a sight he wouldn't have expected to see today. Or any other day this week.

"Sam."

Sam let his lips curl upward, in a small smile that held both a nervous apology and an inexplicable sadness, that told Jim the floppy-haired Winchester wasn't here for pleasure.

Business, it was.

His eyes automatically reaching over Sams shoulder, looking, as they had always done, for the kids older brother. He knew, however, that he wouldn't find the elder of the brothers anywhere near his church today. Sam was too nervous, too chazzled, to rough around the edges. He was alone.

Sam noticed the shift of the priests eyes as they drifted over his shoulder, to the doorway and knew immediately what the man was looking for. Or, _who_, to be more specific.

"Dean isn't here."

"I know." The answer surprised the younger man. To be honest, being confronted with this old pal of their dad, unnerved him more than he'd have thought. He'd been away from Stanford for days now, longer even, no longer part of that painfully normal world. But he hadn't been part of any other world either, merely existing on the basis. Eating, sleeping, driving. Running.

Now, here he was, face to face with a past he wasn't ready to reconcile with and the urge to turn his head, let his eyes go to the door, the way Jims had done, looking, hoping, to see the reassuring presence of his brother behind him, was overwhelming.

He shook his head, unwilling to be a passenger on this particular train of thought, and looked up, to find the graying priest sizing him up. Waiting, patiently, for Sam to explain his needs. The reason of his showing up so unexpectedly. No use dwelling on thoughts that would get him nowhere. More pressing issues needed to be adressed.

"I need your help."

The older hunter didn't show any sign of surprise. Nor did he feel it. Why else would the boy be here? He looked like he hadn't eaten or done anything to take care of himself in weeks. His hair, always an inch too long and, therefore, an endless object of mockery for the older Winchester brother, was now hanging low over his eyes. His clothes looked big and shabby on his lanky frame and there were bags under his eyes that indicated a severe lack of sleep. His years of listening to people, of trying to help them gather insight, get their lives in order, had taught him, however, not to press such matters. Not wanting to scare the kid away, he decided to focus solely on what the boy had actually said, instead of on what he didn't say.

"What kind of help?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

This town hardly looked promising.

It seemed every damn house here had a picketfence, flowers on the lawn and a sign of a golden retriever warning off possible evildoers.

Not about to give up on the inside of the town just because of its sugarcoated outside, Dean parked his car in front of the local bar. If there was any dirt, this was probably where he'd find it.

Besides, he was parched.

And it was past noon.

He deserved a beer.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam sat behind the large desk, leaning on the wood, his hands cradling the mug of tea Jim had put before him. The other man sat on the other end, his hands folded, as he took in everything Sam had just told him. The young hunter had chosen to reveal, curtly, what had happened to Jessica, not elaborating on what he had done, where he had been and who he had been driving towards. He hadn't mentioned his brother or father and had, instead, opted to go straight to the vision that had hit him just this morning, explaining what he had seen and what it was that he needed help with.

"I have no idea who this woman is. Or why I had that...well...vision, I guess. I didn't know where to start, what to look for. I don't know where she is but...It...I don't know. It felt familiar somehow. As if I know where she is but I just can't remember or something."

The priest looked intendly at the boy in front of him, not wanting to dwell on everything he himself wanted to know, but, once again, only on what the younger felt comfortable sharing.

"Familiar, how?"

Sam took a deep breath, not knowing where the answer he was about to give came from.

"Like I've been there. Like it was...mine...I... I don't know. I don't know where this comes from. I didn't even realise it before now. It just feels like I've been where she is. Like I should have been there. Like I should remember but I don't"

Unable to ignore the issues any longer , Jim asked.

"Sam. Have you called your brother? Your father? They may be able to help you with this a lot better than I can. They know practically every place you've ever been. Any house you've ever lived in. You say the woman in your vision is standing in front of a window, screaming. I think it pretty safe to assume it is the house that she lives in, or the town at the very least, what we must look for, but I'm afraid I'm not quite sure how to help you. This house, or town, that feels familiar to you...I know not all the places you've visited and, with your background, it could be an endless search. I'm not quite sure I'm the person to ask"

Sam shook his head, clueless as to where these sudden thoughts came from.

"No, Jim. That's just the thing. I can't believe I'm only thinking this now, but it can't be just any place. All the places we've really lived in...I went to school in those towns, I remember them. I know them. Can list 'm all. This house though, or this town as you say, is one I can't clearly recall. It doesn't _look_ familiar. Only _feels_ that way, so it can't be just any random place. It needs to be something I've seen, or been to, but have no memories off...I..."

He trailed off as he his voice left him. How could he not have seen this? He was supposed to be quick on the uptake. Could it really be...could it...it...

Jim watched as the boy across from his let his unfinished sentence hang in the air, let it simmer in his mind. He knew what the kid was gonna say, yet had no idea how he knew it.

"Jim. Do you have any pictures of our house in Lawrence?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Ha!

He knew it! He'd known it from the get go.

"Not all that glitters, is gold", people said.

"Nothing that glitters, will ever be gold", Dean said.

A poltergeist. A poltergeist right here in SimCity.

He walked past the motel and straight to his car. he'd only had a _few_ beers and Dean knew how to drive his car. It occured to him that maybe he should book a room, take a shower, get some rest. Get prepared.

He ignored it.

There was a job waiting for him. Why waste time?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Jim stood in the small kitchen of his modest, yet comfortable house. After Sam had asked him about Lawrence, he had offered to drive the boy to his place and give him whatever pictures he had of the Winchester family and anything concerning their hometown, that John had left in his care all those years ago. Now, he stood near the door, careful not to let Sam hear him, as he spoke into the receiver.

"John. It's Jim. It's been a while since we spoke and I've tried to respect your choice to stay silent not only to me, but towards your sons. However, I do believe it's time for you to come out of hiding. Dean has been calling me about your whereabouts and now, I have your youngest son here, asking about your house in Lawrence, I have no idea if this might be, in any way, connected to Mary, but..."

He tried to keep the frustration, the anger, in check, as he finished.

"Enough is enough, John. Call your sons."

He put the horn back in its place and glanced towards the door. He realised it might not have been the best move, calling the oldest Winchester, knowing fully well how John Winchester reacted to such things, but he hadn't been able to ignore the aggravation he felt, when he thought of how Deans voice had sounded, asking Jim about his father, and the helpless look in Sams eyes as he had sat before him. The way John tended to treat his boys, had been a subject of discussion between him and the other hunter many times over the years, and this had been one occurence too many. One too cruel, in Jims eyes.

He got back to the small study in the back of his house, to find Sam poured over a box filled with photo's, drawings, papers and other memoribilia that dated back almost two decades. The time he didn't remember. The time before the fire that turned his world upside down and fated him to an existence he'd never have known otherwise.

The boy looked up from an old picture of the four Winchesters, and smiled softly. Sadly still. Even more so than he'd done a few hours ago.

"There were four of us. I never saw it that way. I can't remember there was a time there were _four_ Winchesters."

He put the picture down in front of him, took a sip from his coffee.

"This is it though, Jim. I don't know why I know, but I do. This house. I think I saw it..."

Jim sat down one of the other two chairs and took the photo. He studied it intently. It was such an innocent picture. Thousands of them were taken every single day. This family. smiling up at him, was just one of many. Until evil had come and taken it away. Taken the soul away from this family and left them broken forever. And now, it had done so again.

"Sam. Have you thought about what I said? About calling your father. Your brother. If not for this, then because they'd want to know. About you. About what happened to your girlfriend."

The younger man took a breath and let his shoulders droop, resigned.

"I don't know, Jim. Maybe. My father...I...I'm not sure. I'm not sure I'm up to that right now."

Jim wasn't ready to leave it at that.

"How about your brother, then? He'd want to know about this, Sam. You know he would. He's been..." Jim sighed. Unsure of what to tell Sam exactly. Unsure whether he should tell the kid about his father. after a moment of contemplation, he decided against it.

"He's been hunting on his own a lot lately. I'm sure he'd like to hear from you."

Which was an understatement of epic proportions, the priest had to admit, but he didn't want to pressure the younger boy into doing anything that might cause him to get too anxious, too uncomfortable.

"I know." Sam said, his fingers dragging the mug from one side of the table to the other, by its handle. "I know he would. I...I would like to see him too." He snorted. There was nu humor here. "That's an understatement, I think. I've been wanting to call him but I couldn't remember his number. Didn't even think of calling and asking. Didn't think much at all, actually. Not sure I am now, to tell you the truth. But yeah, I want to see my brother. I really do, Jim. But I don't want to drag him into this. If I call Dean, he'll get here and he'll want to take me away from this. He'll want to protect me and I don't want that. This is something I have to do myself.

The older man nodded. He could somehow see the logic in that, even if he doubted this was the smartest move.

"All right. Then let's find out what we need to, to get you to Lawrence. I'll come with you if you want me to. But...let me give you his number, Sam. You need to call your brother, if not now, then as soon as you deem fit. You two boys need each other, Sam. You always have."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He stood at the foot of the grave and watched the fire light up, as the bones of the former 'Emilia Rosser' burned up.

Another job done, then. Another spirit put to rest.

He smiled as he walked away from the grim scene and left the graveyard behind him.

He'd go back to the bar, have a beer, maybe take that waitress up on her offer, and go in search of a newspaper.

Time for another job.

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Sam stared at the house in front of where he'd parked the car and then back at the picture of his family, the one he'd found at Jims place, lying on the passenger seat. Scattered around it lay old newspaperclippings about the fire, handwritten notes from his fathers hand about several things, old insurance papers and other stuff that he may need later on but had no use for now.

He'd declined Jims offer to accompany him and had left the priest with the promise he'd call whenever he needed help and to keep him posted on whatever he was doing. He'd been back on the road for hours until he'd arrived in Lawrence just mere moments ago. He had not yet bothered to look for a motel, but had driven straight to where the house that held so many memories he'd never possess, stood. His mother. He had lived in this house with his brother and his father and his mother, and they had been a family. Just a regular, normal, family. Then, the fire had come and killed his mother and now, he sat here, sitting in the car of his girlfriend, who had been killed by the same thing that had taken his mother, staring at the house that he should have grown up in, wondering if he was in his right mind, and how, if he _was_, he was gonna help the woman that now lived here, fight off whatever it was that needed fighting off.

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These damn jobs were getting too easy. Another town, another spirit, another simple salt 'n burn. Wasn't this job supposed to be dangerous? All the towns looked the same, all the people were the same, all the spirits did the same things. He was getting bored. He needed something a bit more...challenging. A bit more exciting.

Something like a haunted mansion (preferably not the Eddie Murphy-kind), or a werewolf. Maybe a nice scary legend. Something like the Loch Ness monster.

That was the stuff movies were made off.

Yeah. He'd like to take on Nessie.

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He was so absorbed by his thoughts that he didn't notice the woman tapping on his window, until she opened the door and addressed him.

" You got trouble hearing, boy? Been tapping a right hole through your window."

Sam started and looked at the black woman, who looked down on him, a friendly glint in her eyes,in spite of the relative harshness of her words.

" Don't worry, boy. Didn't mean to spook you. I'm here to help you. You're Sam, right? Sam Winchester."

It wasn't a question. Sam could only nod as he unfasted his seatbelt and started to climb out of the car. The woman held up her hand, in a gesture for him to stop.

"I know you don't know me, Sam. My name is Missouri. Missouri Mosley. I know your father. Why don't you follow me to my house, Sam. where we can talk a bit more comfortably, and you can ask me all those questions running through your mind, right now."

Sam couldn't have told you why he trusted this woman, who so abruptly and deliberately stepped into his life, like she had expected him to show up, but he did. So he nodded and watched her walk back to her car. How the hell had his life, in such a short amount of time, become so confusing. How the hell had he ended up here?

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It was the moment in between listening to Gavin Rossdale exclaim he didn't believe that Elvis was dead and trying to decide who would play him in the movie about his life, (and he had yet to come up with a title. "The adventures of Dean Winchester, superhero extraordinaire" sounded too much like a comic, "The life and death of Dean Winchester" sounded like a Lifetime-movie about a bad poet with leukemia, and "Tales from a ghosthunter" had the feel of a cheap 80's televisionshow.), that he couldn't take it any longer.

Enough was enough. And he had been alone long enough, now.

He turned up the radio.

He was gonna go to Los Angeles, and find his asshole brother.

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Why he was sitting at yet another kitchentable, holding yet another cup of tea, made by yet another friend of his father, was a question he didn't want to bother with right now.

Missouri was standing at the sink, rummaging through drawers and walking back and forth to the fridge, after announcing he looked nothing but skin and bones, and that she was gonna fix him a proper meal that, if he had no desire to insult her, he'd better enjoy. He sat in the chair she had steered him towards after arriving at her house and felt himself gradually relax. He didn't have a clue as to why he trusted this woman the way he did, but her strong voice and confident manner seemed to have a soothing effect on his nerves.

He hadn't had the nerve, nor the energy, to ask who she was, how she knew his father, or how she even knew he was in town, but she had volunteered most of the information, while making him a cup of strange smelling herbal tea and asking him if he had any allergies, before she had started cooking.

She'd told him she was a psychic, that she had met John when he came to her after the fire, looking for the truth and that she had known he was in town because John had contacted her. He found he wasn't at all surprised to know John had known where he'd be going. He'd known Jim would call his father. How could the man not? He'd probably have done the same, had he been in the priests shoes. The fact that she was a psychic had only been a mild shock, seeing as how he could hardly deny there were such things and that she'd told him she knew why he was in town, and that she herself had been keeping an eye on the house, had cleared away any questions he so far might have had.

Now, all he really wanted to do was put his head on the table and close his eyes. The tiredness he should have been feeling for days, was now kicking in and he knew he would still have to find a motel.

"You daft, boy? 'Course you don't have to go out and find a motel. I have a guestroom and I reckon that 'll be a right sight cleaner than any motelroom you're going to find anywhere near this place."

He was shaken out of his reverie by the womans comment, and it took him a second to draw the conclusion that she must have been reading his mind, because he was pretty sure he hadn't said anything out loud.

"Oh, don't you worry, Sam. I don't go around peeking into people's heads. It's just that you're a bit of an open book right now, and that bit about finding a motelroom was something that kinda grabbed my attention there, you were thinking it so loud."

He forced the tired muscles in his neck to relax as he allowed the small smile he could feel pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay, This gonna take some getting used to, Missouri. I'm not really accustomed to people reading my mind. Except maybe for my brother."

With that, he felt the pang of his brothers absence, the way he had been feeling it ever since Jim had given him Deans number. Before, he hadn't had the possibility of calling his brother, it had been out of his hands. Now, however, he would only have to pick up the phone to hear Deans reassuring voice. The thought that he wouldn't be hearing that voice until this thing, whatever it was, was solved, caused his muscles to contract. He missed his brother, in a way that was physically painful. But he knew he wasn't ready to call him.

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He was halfway back to Utah, when the inevitable doubt settled back in. Was he really going to Palo Alto? Was he really going to get his brother, ask him for help? He had sworn to himself, two years (Decades? Centuries?) ago that he wouldn't mess up his brothers life again and he'd managed to hold himself to that so far. Was he truly going to go to California and rip his brother out of his safety zone, just because he couldn't stand to be alone?

Was he that pathetic?

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Sam lay in Missouri's guestroom, trying desperately to fall asleep. The idea of simply sinking into nothingness, to turn off the world for a while, was tempting but the events of the past evening, the past day kept crawling through his mind.

Missouri had put a plate in front of him, taken a seat across from him and answered each other question, he still hadn't asked. She'd told him she had already been to visit Jenny, the young woman now living in the old Winchester house with her two children, and that she had talked to her about what may be going on.

"I told her nothing about you, of course. But when your daddy called me and told me you'd be coming this way I figured it had to be that house again. I've been friendly with Jenny since she moved into town a few weeks ago. I thought it wise to keep an eye on that house, like I've been doing ever since your father came to see me."

She told him she'd asked Jenny about the house and that the woman had told her about the "rats" in the basement. She also shared with Sam, the thing that she was afraid to tell him.

"Sam. When your daddy took me to your house to see if I could sense something, I knew it was evil that had touched your house. But when I went back there, just now, it wasn't the same thing."

She'd confessed to him that she wasn't quite sure as to what it was currently residing in the house, only that it wasn't the same and, which had seemed to scare her more than it did him, that she believed she had sensed two spirits, instead of one.

"Two different energies. I don't know how they would be connected but I'm sure they were there."

When Missouri had first mentioned picking up on more than one spirit, Sam hadn't given it much thought beyond the difficulty it might bring if they had to exorcise _two _spirits from the house. Now, however, as he tossed and turned, he found the idea a lot more concerning. Two spirits could mean two evil entities, but it could also mean something entirely different. His own mother had been murdered in that house and who knew what had happened in there beyond that night. Missouri had agreed to take him to meet Jenny in a few hours, to try and talk to the woman and get a sense of where to start. He appreciated the womans help but it also left him feeling...wanting. So she was a psychic, did that mean he was one, too? And why had this vision hit him? It had to be connected to the house, so was it somehow connected to the thing that had killed Mary Winchester, and then Jessica? He couldn't deny the connection between him and this things activities, but was that what was going on here, or was he looking for answers in the wrong places?

As he willed for sleep to come, he stared at the images of his mother and his girlfriend on the ceiling and tried not to think.

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The answer was yes. He was that pathetic.

He knew he might regret this decision. He knew there was a chance that he'd turn the car around some time later. Knew that he might get to Palo Alto and decide to let it be, let _him_ be. For now, however, he'd keep on driving. He couldn't bring himself to change direction. He had to keep driving. Needed the illusion that he was going somewhere. That he was going to his family.

That he was going home.

So kept on driving. Trying to think of anything but the fact that he was, once again, going to be the one to disrupt his brothers peaceful life.

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His mother.

Sam stood rooted to the spot, his back to the wall. His mother. He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that it was his mother who came walking up to him, yet, at the same time, it seemed perfectly logical. Like it was supposed to happen this way.

She came to a stop in front of him and looked upto him, a kind and loving smile played on her lips. A mothers smile. She looked at him as if she knew him, knew everything about him and loved him still. There were a million things he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of _one_.

It was his mother.

And she was apologising to him. Why? What could she possibly have to apologise for? He wanted to ask but she had turned already, taking on the spirit, that had been tormenting Jenny and her family, by itself. He might have done something, taken some kind of action, but it was over so soon, and before he knew it, he was being whisked away by Missouri, put into a car and driven back towards her house, where she sat him down on a kitchenchair and put a mug of what looked like hot chocolate in front of him.

He had no clue as to what to say, or do, or think. So he just sat there and drank his chocolate.

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It was when he was getting nearer to his brother with every minute, when he was long done listening to the music that was, nonetheless, still playing, when he was trying to accept that he was just going to have to play himself in the movie (because his man Jack was getting a tad too old to play such a handsome devil and no other actor would be up to the job), that his phone beeped.

His heartrate picking up ever so slightly, he fished the phone out from the heap of hamburgerwrappers and empty coffeecups, and glanced at the screen, while also keeping his eyes on the road before him.

His heart skipped a beat. They were coordinates. Again. He didn't know whether to be relieved or angry and, in the end, settled for both.

His dad still hadn't bothered to call, but at least this was something. At least he knew he was alive.

He stopped the car by the side of the road and checked out the coordinates.

"Burkittsville, Indiana."

He pressed his lips together, trying to make up his mind.

A moment later, he started the car.

And turned it back around.

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The moment he woke up, everything that had happened came rushing back to him. He got out of bed, into the shower and went downstairs to find Missouri sitting on the porch, coffee in her hands, the newspaper on the small table in front of her. She looked up as he came through the door.

"Morning sweetie. Sleep a little?"

He smiled tentatively as he took a seat beside her.

"Yeah. I did actually. Hours through. That wouldn't have something to do with that hot chocolate you gave me last night, would it?"

She smiled guiltily.

"I didn't mean no harm, Sam. It was just herbs. Completely harmless. You looked like you really needed some sleep and after last night...well...it seemed like the right idea."

Sam looked her in the eyes and found he couldn't feel anger or even annoyance towards the woman. He probably _had_ needed the rest.

"Guess it's no use inviting you to stay here as long as you like."

Again, it wasn't a question. She knew the answer. He shook his head and gave her another smile. A genuine one. It felt weird.

"Thanks Missouri, for everything, but I gotta take off. I have no idea where but...it doesn't feel right, staying here, now. It's done."

The black woman looked at him. He seemed a bit better than when she had first seen him, sitting in that car, staring at that house, but he still looked off. A long way from healing. He hadn't asked her about his mother. He wouldn't, she knew. He wasn't ready to share. It was still too overwhelming. Too personal.

She took a breath and looked the boy in the eye.

"Sam. Your daddy, he asked me to get you this." She pulled a brand new cellphone from her pocket and handed it to him. He looked at her, astonished, but at the same time, accepting.

"You keep it with you, okay, Sam? I have a feeling you'll be hearing from your daddy pretty soon."

Sam nodded and took the phone from her. A part of him was glad, relieved, to know his father knew he was in town, that he cared enough to contact Missouri, to get him this phone. Another part wondered where Dean was, then. He'd been hunting alone a lot, Jim had said. Did that mean John hadn't called him to share the news on his youngest son? Did that mean his brother was alone, now, as well?

He got up, and hugged Missouri.

"Thanks again, Missouri. I'll keep in touch."

Walking away from the porch Missouri was still standing on, as he knew she would be until he'd driven out of sight, he crossed the short distance to his car. He got behind the wheel and stared ahead for a moment. He still hadn't called his brother. The desire to actually see his brother, sit next to him in his beloved Impala, or even across from him in some backroad diner, was overwhelming.

Whether it was because of the events of the last few hours, or because he now had a phone and the means to contact his brother, he didn't know. He only knew that enough was enough, and he had been alone long enough now. He didn't want to stay in another motelroom by himself. He wanted his brother. It was when he was contemplating calling Dean, or calling his father to ask him about Deans whereabouts and driving there, when the phone in his left pocket made a bleeping noise. Reaching into his pocket with one hand, while starting the ignition with his other, he looked at the incoming message.

His heart stopped as he saw the familiar signs displayed on the small screen.

Coordinates.

He held his breath as he saw the past four years flash through his mind. His life as a college student. It was over. It was time he came to terms with the fact that he wouldn't be going back to Palo Alto for a while. These coordinates pointed him towards the life he'd known deep down he'd be entering again, when he steered his car away from the collegebuilding and away from his applepie life.

He checked the coordinates again, searched the car for a map and the phone for internet access.

"Burkittsville, Indiana."

Life as a hunter had, once again, begun.

* * *

I know this chapter was very 'Sam-heavy', but I needed this whole psychic/Mary/Missouri thing over and done with, in order to get Sam a bit more levelheaded. Don't worry, though, Dean will make a full comeback in the next chapter. 

Just out of curiosity: who do you think Dean would want to play him?

As always, thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

The Road Ahead

**The Road Ahead. **

**Author's note:** It's been an awfully long time. I am so sorry. I've been awfully busy and I can't do much more than hope life will at least give me enough inspiration to write some seriously overrated novel, which will then be turned into a Lifetime movie, starring either Tori Spelling or the Olsen twins.

I hope those who were kind enough to read this, are still with me. Thank you!!

* * *

Chapter 5.

_November 2003, California. _

The ceiling was a weird shade of white. An annoying shade of white. (Why were ceilings always white?) He openes his eyes a bit further and tries to look around him. He can glimpse a wall, from the corner of his eye. White too, the same weird shade. Unnerving almost. Eerie. It hurts his eyes and makes his breath hitch in his throat. He closes his eyes again.

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2005, Indiana.

He'd turned the car around. Why had he done that again? He'd finally been on his way. He had finally made the decision to go see his brother and this is what happened. His father called and he turned the car around to follow orders. Why did he do that? Why did he blindly follow the old man's orders? Why could he not listen to his own instincts for once?

Damned if he wasn't exactly the good little soldier Sam had always accused him of being.

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2005, Indiana.

It was remarkable, really. How quickly one could change, adjust, adapt. It was barely a few hours after he'd received his dad's coordinates to Indiana, and he was already back in hunter's mode. As he stepped up the gas, his head buzzed with questions, theories and possible solutions. What was in Burkittsville that needed killing? What form of the supernatural was he dealing with? How long would it take to find the library? Who could he best try to talk to first? Where would he be able to find the weapons and materials he needed?

His hands were itching to get to work, research, crack this case. Get the job done.

One question, however, overruled every other.

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_November 2003. _

_He thinks he hears voices. Voices that he recognizes. They're soft and harsh at the same time. They whisper, but can't hide the frenzied, almost desperate, tone. He hears them, but doesn't know what they say. Can't decipher the words._

_He tries to hold as still as possible, to not hear any of the other sounds that come drifting his way. The clatter of the nurses' feet in white leather, as they hurry through the hospitalcorridors, the chatter of mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, friends and family, as they frantically search for the room that holds their loved one. He holds as still as possible and tries to discern the voices, because he's pretty sure he recognizes them. He's pretty sure he knows who they belong to._

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2005, Indiana.

There were times when he loved his job. Loved the sensation of closing in on an enemy, taking down another piece of evil, saving another innocent. This was not one of those times. Scotty hadn't exactly been helpful and Mr and Mrs Jorgeson had been about as honest as Tyson back in the day. Good thing that Emily girl had been there to give him something to work with. If it wasn't for her, he'd never have known where to start. 'Blessed', was the word the girl had used. Blessed. Yeah, right.

If he had just gone on to California to find his brother, he wouldn't be standing here right now, looking at the ugliest scarecrow he'd ever seen. He'd be in the company of his little brother and awkward as that may have been, it sure beat having to find out what this piece of shit had to do with the disappearance of couples from all over. If he had just followed his instincts, he wouldn't be here. Working yet another job. But no... He had to go and follow another one of his dad's orders.

Damn scarecrow.

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2005, nearing Indiana.

Sam pulled into a parkinglot, got out of the car, nodded his head to a bunch of truckdrivers, and walked around his car to open the trunk. He'd pulled into a small town, not far from the main road to buy some basic supplies. Salt, matches, first-aid kit, bottled water, a few smaller knives and a small gun. He'd figured it best to be in possession of such things before he reached the small town he was headed to. It wouldn't do to have to stock up on guns, knives and other dangerous weapons right there. He needed to arrive in town looking like just another college-beau on a roadtrip, not Van Helsing.

He closed the trunk and walked the short distance to the gasstation. He needed coffee, maybe some breakfast. Then, he'd get back on the road. There were things that needed killing.

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_2003, California. _

_He openes his eyes again and realizes he never noticed he closed them. He tries to sit up immediately, strains to see if he can hear those voices again, but the movement tilts his world and he can't hear anything but the soft buzzing of the lights in the hall. It's dark. In the room, in the corridors, outside. He guesses it's the middle of the night. He tries to relax, to close his eyes, to sleep, but he can't drown out the buzzing now, and he can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. That would sort of be a given, he knows. He's in the hospital, for fuck's sake. But that's not what worries him, though. What worries him is he doesn't know why he's in the hospital. He tries to remember and all he can see are flashes of dark and light. Violent red streaks through a midnight sky. He hears noise, but it's all static. How did he end up here? And why are dad and Sam here? _

_And why aren't they?_

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2005, Indiana.

He kept remembering the white ceiling. And his brother. And he didn't know whether or not he'd made the right decision. He'd turned the car around because his father had sent him those coordinates and he'd thought, hoped, that maybe he'd meet up with him but when the phone beeped and a textmessage with nothing more than names and dates had come through, he'd known better. Anger that he couldn't, wouldn't allow had coursed through him but he didn't change his mind. There were innocent people about to get killed and he was never one to walk away from hero-duty.

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2005, Indiana.

Burkittsville, Indiana didn't look like most towns did. It wasn't just another town. Most towns Sam had visited in his many years on the road, looked exactly the same. Same stores, same houses, same people. Same evil. A poltergeist in Springfield, Arizona, a Rawhead in Springfield, Maine, a zombie in Springfield, Colorado. It was all the same really, they just took different ways of killing. Burkittsville, however, wasn't like any of those towns. The houses were whiter and neater and cleaner, the stores were smaller, cosier and cheaper and the people were friendlier, kinder and more helpful.

It spooked Sam to the bone.

Never had they stayed in a place where the people were as nice and warm and welcoming as here. Everybody smiled at him, asking him if they could be of help, more than willing to tell him, the nice roadtripping med-student (and he couldn't, for the life of him, tell you why he hadn't just said 'pre-law'), all about their lovely town.

Where to start? If it wasn't for the overly friendly people Sam never would have guessed something was wrong. He'd driven around town, found a motel and had some pie at the local diner. So far, there wasn't a single clue as to what he would be dealing with.

And no sign of his brother.

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_2003, California. _

_He'd had a fight with his father. He remembered that. He couldn't pinpoint the day exactly, but it ought to be about 3 weeks ago. His dad had suggested driving towards Palo Alto to check up on Sam, which he'd agreed on, because he knew what his father got like whenever they reached the university. He'd agreed however, because the urge to see his brother was greater than his reluctance to deal with his father. He'd almost regretted that decision when they'd arrived and he was, once again, confronted with the side of John Winchester that he often tried to ignore existed . The moment they'd hit town and saw Sam walk out of the schoolbuilding, carrying books, laughing, living, he'd been in a piss-poor mood. Seeing Sam living his All-American dream, didn't usually do wonders for Dean's mood either, and most of the times, such trips to California ended withm Winchester & son hogging a barstool for too long. This time, however, John had been more than pissed, and therefore, had ended up more than drunk. They'd gone back to the motel, where the man had given his oldest the usual reprimand about the way he'd coddled the boy into rebelliance and then passed out on the bed. When Dean woke up, he was gone. Dad was gone and he'd been...He'd been on a hunt. On his own. Just a routine job. A simple salt 'n burn. Nothing to it. He could have done it with his eyes closed. But he couldn't do it alone. Because when he was alone, really alone, not knowing whether or not his family was safe because they'd up and left him, he wasn't able to concentrate. And concentrating on your job, being completely focused on the matter at hand, was kind of crucial when your job was hunting and killing the evil paranormal and the matter at hand was a pissed-off spirit that Just. Wouldn.t. Die. _

_Or undie. Whatever. But since his brother had already been Joe College for two years, and his father had now been MIA for 2 weeks, he was having trouble keeping his mind on that damned spirit. He knew he should have been done within no time. He knew Robert. H. Prickle should have been at rest, he'd known it then and he knew it now, but he hadn't been able to get the job done. He wanted to know where his father was, he wanted to know if his brother was okay. He hadn't wanted to stand there, facing a seriously annoying, extremely noisy, spirit. _

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2005, Indiana.

He was still seeing that damned white ceiling. The memory of it wouldn't leave him alone. Even now, as he steered the Impala back towards the "Welcome to Burkittsville" sign, the image plagued him. He knew what it was. Knew that ceiling like no other. Of all the white ceilings he'd stared up at in his life, this one was ingrained in his memory. He didn't think back to those days in the hospital often, but when he was alone, seperated from his family, his anchor, and found himself on the brink of desperation, the memory reared it's ugly head and the spotless white ceiling placed itself firmly in his mind. A mockery of his solitude. In his 26 years, he had been around his father more than other people his age. He'd spent more time with his brother than his peers. But he'd been alone more than anyone else. He hated the word 'loneliness'. Thought is was used too often, too easily. It was a word that poets wrote and artists painted. Used to describe a state of mind most people would never truly feel. He knew loneliness better than any other feeling, save for fear and worry. Three emotions that came hand in hand with a pain he was too familiar with. In such moments, he found a good shot of bad whiskey was the ticket to escape. A way to distance himself from his feelings and the solution to his reluctance to do his job. A way to keep going.

Today was such a day.

As soon as he saved that foolishly ignorant couple from the fate that awaited them, he'd find a bar outside of town and get himself a drink. He needed it today. Today was one of those days where that white ceiling took centre stage and refused to fade to the background. Where the lost feeling that surrounded him, seemed to close in on him, making it impossible to breathe. Where the weight in the pit of his stomach, the sting in the centre of his chest, became unbearable.

He missed his brother.

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2005, Indiana.

There was nothing. He had absolutely no idea of where to go, what to look for or who to talk to. He'd taken his car and driven up to the small library to try and find books, or articles on anything that could have happened here, but had come up empty. Now, as he drove towards the gas station-slash-mechanic and checked his phone again for any more news, he wondered why the hell his father hadn' t given him anything else. Something, anything, to go on. He had to admit to himself now, he'd half expected to meet Dean here. If John sent him these coordinates, he'd certainly sent them to Dean as well. He been through the whole town several times now, however, and still no sign of his brother. Where was he? And if Dean wasn't here, then why was _he_?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

_2003, California. _

_He didn't remember falling back into a black void, nor could he recall being whisked away on a gurney. Apparently, the owners of the haunted house had found him unconsciously in the basement of their thoroughly thrashed house, with a pin through the left side of his stomach._

_The doctor that now stood at his bedside, glanced briefly at him over the rim of his glasses, leafing through the papers on his chart, as he spoke to the two men that stood on the other side of the bed, shoulders stiff, heads bowed. The doctor directed his look towards Dean again, lingering on the young men's face this time, and finished revealing to the other men the details concerning his patients condition. _

_It seemed as though __he'd fallen through a hole in the first floor, and landed on some tools. __A screwdriver had buried itself in his body, piercing the left side of his stomach. He'd been found by the Hendersons, who had called 911 and told them he was a friend of a friend and he'd been fixing some stuff around the house,when he'd taken that fall. _

_He listened as the doctor droned on about the details of his condition, using medical terms he didn't understand, but couldn't keep his attention to focus on what the man was saying. He wasn't even sure he was really awake. Actually, he was pretty sure he wasn't awake at all. He heard the doctor talking, heard his soft and confident voice as he explained that, although some serious damage had been caused by the fall, his life had ben in very serious danger and a couple more days in the hospital were certainly required, his patient was a strong and fit young man and he would be just fine. He really did try to listen, but he was weary, tired and he couldn't keep his mind from wandering towards his dad and brother. They were here? He didn't seem capable of opening his eyes. Why was he so tired? How was he supposed to find his father, or his brother when he couldn't even open his goddamn eyes ? _

_Another struggle, that felt as if he shook the whole room, earned him a peek through the slits of his eyes._

_They were there. They were really there. Both of them. Side by side, they stood by the bed and listened intently to what the doctor was telling them. Sam's hand was on his bed, near his hand, almost touching. He wanted nothing more than to move his hand, touch Sam's, let him know he was awake, he was there. Nothing to worry about. He wanted to talk to them. Both of them. To tell them he was fine and why were they here, and could they please not leave? He wanted to open his eyes and look at them. Look them in the eye and see they were fine. See the worry, the relief, the love._

_Instead, he gave up the fight against sleep and let his eyes slip completely shut again. _

_They were here. That was all that really mattered, anyway. _

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

Dean leaned over the desk as the collegeprofessor at his side pointed out, once again, that the rituals described in the book in front of them were rituals from times long ago, and were certainly no longer practised. The Winchester only half-listened to the man's words, as he spun his newly acquired knowledge around in his head.

A pagan god ritual. That's what this was.

That's what this was? A pagan God ritual? Was the universe conspiring against him or something? Was his dad? Everytime he got a message from the man he ended up in these weird ass situations that were not only keen in getting him killed, but wanted to do that as unpleasant as humanly possible. If it wasn't a Wendigo, it was a bunch of God-loving (no pun intended), lawabiding ( again, no pun intended) freaks who made it their favourite pastime to feed ignorent roadtrippers to a damn scarecrow!

Okay. Well. It didn't really matter now, did it? He was gonna have to put a stop to it once again. He smiled at the man that was now looking at him with an aprehensive look and took a step towards the door. He was gonna have to leave here and get back to the orchard as soon as possible. He opened the door and almost bumped right into the officer of the Burkittsville Law as he made to move forward. The man raised his hand and Dean knew he was in trouble.

He should thank his father for sending him those coordinates and making him turn the car around. He really should.

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

Sam sat in the drivers seat of his car, that was currently parked in a no parking zone, and stared straight ahead, without actually taking in his surroundings. The hand that held a long since gone cold cup of coffee rested in his lap.

Dean.

Dean was here.

Okay, he hadn't seen him, really, but...he knew. He knew. He'd just returned from the local grocerystore where he'd talked to both of the owners and their niece, Emily. A nice girl who had been a lot more helpful than her aunt and uncle. He'd gone in meaning to simply fish a little bit. To try and see if he could find something, anything, to work with. He'd taken the chance to talk to Emily as she was cleaning the store and he'd been working his way up to asking if anything out of the ordinary may have once upon a time occured. He'd mentioned how friendly and perfect her town seemed and she, unaware of the importance, the meaning, had mentioned another guy saying the same thing. The instant she'd said that, he'd felt his heart skip a beat and he knew, without a doubt, that she was talking about his brother.

He hadn't let his emotions show, however, and had gone on by asking,with as much casualty as he could muster, about the roadtrippers in this area. Luckily, Emily felt like talking because she'd shared with him that they saw a couple every now and then, and that this other guy wasn't one but that he, in fact, had been looking for some friends of his who had been roadtripping there a year back.

He'd then asked for directions back to the interstate. He was done talking.

Now, as he sat in his car, wondering where to start the search for his brother, he knew he simply had to try and follow in his footsteps. Literally. Emily had talked about how blessed the town was, and that Dean had been looking for a couple. He needed the internet. Fast.

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November 2003, California.

He knew that if he opened his eyes, he'd see the white again. The white ceiling, the white walls, the white bedsheets. He knew that if he opened his eyes, he wouldn't keep them open for very long. Knew he wouldn't see his brother, or his father. Would he?

He opened them anyway.

And stared right into his brothers eyes.

"Hey."

If Sam hadn't opened his mouth and uttered that one syllable, he would have thought it an illusion. A hallicunation.

He was here. His brother. His Sammy.

He was here.

"Hey."

_He couldn't wrap his mind around it. For two years, he hadn't seen his brother. Hadn't talked to him. lived with him. been in his life. _

_Now, here he was, standing by his bedside, with that ridiculous 6.4 ft of his, looking down at him. A small, soft smile played his lips and he put his hand on Dean's arm. _

"_How are you feeling?"_

_He couldn't have answered if his life, or Sam's for that matter, depended on it. and he couldn't keep his eyes open. _

"_Sammy..."_

_He saw his brother lean forward, felt him tighten his grip. _

"_What is it, Dean? What do you need?"_

_He felt his eyes slip closed again. He fought with what felt like his whole body, but his eyelids weighed a ton. _

"_Sam..."_

_He didn't want to leave. He didn't want his little brother to leave him. _

"_Stay..."_

_And he slipped away, into the beckoning darkness. _

_SNSNSNSNSNSNSN_

2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

Locked in a basement. He was locked in a basement, with the niece of the people who did the locking in, waiting to be sacrificed to a pagan God, in exchange for nice red apples come harvest. How the fuck did he get himself trapped in situations like this over and over again?

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

A pagan god ritual. That's what this was. Unbelievable. His first day back on the job, and he was dealing with people who sacrificed humans in order to keep their town booming. Or blooming, in this case. He'd found the local community college, one of the few places he deemed worthy of having a decent internet connection and he'd found the newspaperarticles on a couple that went missing during a roadtrip, right after passing through Burkittsville.

As he walked out the backdoor of the building, passing an older man who looked like he was a professor here, he knew he'd have to go back to the town as soon as possible. That scarecrow was sure to get into actionmode at sundown and he was pretty sure his brother would be there, had he found out about the ritual. And he was really pretty sure that he had. Dean was nothing if not good at his job, whether it be killing evil or taking care of his brother.

He tightened his grip on the notebook he still held in his hand and fastened his pace. He wanted to find his brother. He needed to see him. It was time now. It really was. because, to be honest, he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to do this alone.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

November 2003, California.

_He half-woke to the sound of hushed whispers that grew steadily stronger. _

_Without a doubt, without having to listen, he knew it was them. _

_He'd heard enough of it throughout his life to know, and hate, that sound more than anything else. They were fighting. _

_Again. _

_He heard Sam's voice as he asked his father, accusingly no doubt, where he'd been and why Dean had been hunting alone. He heard his fathers gruff voice grow clearer as anger seeped into his words. _

"_You don't get to ask me that question, boy." _

_Wrong answer. Dean could have told him that long before he even spoke the words. This would just anger Sam even further. _

"_What do you mean, I don't get to ask you that question? Because I left? Is that it? Are we there again?"_

_He heard the anger, the franticness, the guilt even, in his brother's voice as he huffed. _

"_Fine. We're here again. Yeah, I left, and this is exactly why, dad! This! I was tired of hunts, and blood and hospitals. How many times have we been here like this? Not this hospital or even this town, but in a situation like this? I am fed up with seeing my family in danger, my brother in pain! I am done!"_

_Dean still couldn't open his eyes but he didn't need to, to know he would find his brother staring down at his father, using his height its full advantage, anger sparkling in usually soft, brown eyes. He'd be standing there, arms widened, daring his father to answer, to say something to piss him off even more. _

_He wanted nothing more than to open his mouth, and say something, anything, to calm them down. To make them stop. He hated them fighting, more than anything else in this world, including the demon. Especially over him. He wanted them to stop, but he couldn't make them, so they wouldn't. _

"_You don't wanna see your brother in pain, Sam? In danger? Then you shouldn't have walked away, damn it! Running is not an answer, Sam., you can't just close your eyes and pretend it's not there. It doesn't work that way. You are not a child anymore! You wanna keep your brother safe? Then you should have stayed!"_

_God, this was never going to stop. It was exactly like it had always been. Funny how he had forgotten about that every time he wished he could make things go back to the way they were. _

"_Are you kidding me with this? I am not a child anymore? I can't hide? Dad, I was never a child! I never hid. From any of it! I couldn't have if I wanted to, because you made damn sure we never got the chance! You are the one responsible for this. You are why your son is in the hospital. You and your stupid mission. Don't you dare put this on me!"_

_His little brother was losing it. He was absolutely livid and the effort he put into shouting as quietly as he could was wasted, as a nurse came running into the room.. _

"_Have you two lost your minds? You are in a hospital! There is a boy in that bed, trying to recover from a serious injury."_

_Dean heard her say the words and wished he could sit up to see the looks on Dad's and Sam's faces. Nobody talked to John Winchester like that, without at least receiving a broken nose in return. Both of them seemed appropriately ashamed of their actions, though, as they muttered an apology and a promise to be silent from now on. _

_He felt their looks upon him and was suddenly glad his eyes were closed. He didn't want to see the looks in their eyes. He knew the looks he was getting. He could feel every second of them. He hated them as much as the fights, because they usually came right after. _

_He held completely still. Tried to peek through slits again but could not make out more than silhouets. He heard his father move, step closer to the bed, whisper an apology. Why? Why was he sorry? What was he sorry for? Dean knew he would never get the chance to ask. He heard Sam call softly after his father, felt him touch his forehead, mumble his name. He felt that look again, but couldn't make out what was happening anymore. He felt himself being dragged back into the void again, unconscienceness beckoning once more. _

_When he opened his eye completely for the first time, they were gone. _

_And he knew they weren't coming back. _

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

He didn't have one. A plan. He told Emily he was working on a plan. He wasn't. He had nothing. For not more than the first time in his long career of hunting he found himself completely empty-handed. No dangerous plans, tricky schemes or spur-of-the-moment ideas. Nothing. The sneaking suspicion that he'd known this would happen, was too strong to be batted away. He'd known. He'd gone into this too cocky, too offhanded, too careless.

And that Emily girl knew it. She knew he had nothing. And he knew she knew. Thing was, if he had actually admitted it, had told her, straight up, that he had no fucking clue as to how they were gonna get out of this, then he'd have made it real. And making it real meant allowing all the fears to come pouring out, which was something they could really do without.

But fact was, he had nothing.

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

He stood still as a statue and stared at the parkinglot. Or, more precise, at the car in the parkinglot. The Impala. The Impala was there. Right there, before his very eyes stood the irrefutable proof that his brother was here. Dean. Dean was here. Here in town. Like Sam. But not with him. Where was he? And did he know Sam was here? Was he looking for him as well? Was that why he was here? And where was he?

He slowly made his way to the familiar car and with each step he took, he felt his stomach tighten and his heart swell. It was like he was walking towards the front door of the house he grew up in, after years of abscense. And he supposed that, in a way, he was. He had grown up in this car. This piece of metal that held laughter and music and safety and love. He supposed it was home. Dean had made it that. Dean had made everything home. No matter what hellhole they were staying in, no matter what rundown rats-infested apartment, Dean had always made it home immediately upon arriving, simply by being there. His mere presence enough to comfort Sam into accepting yet another motel as home.

But where was he now? He wasn't in the car, obviously and he hadn't seen him in the collegebuilding, although he had to admit he could have missed him. Had the car been here before? He hadn't really been paying attention, he'd been in such a hurry and his own car was on the other side of the parkinglot, just around the corner of the building, which meant he could have easily walked into the building, without ever noticing his brother's car.

He was tempted to just sit down and wait for his brother but he knew he couldn't. He needed to get back to town and see about that scarecrow. It was his job. Now. Again. But...he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He hadn't seen his brother and he wasn't seeing him now. Sundown was nearing and he knew Dean would never risk being too late. To save people. To kill evil. To do his job. Like he said before: His big brother was good at his job. So where was he, then? It hadn't taken Sam that long to figure out what the deal with this damn pagan god was, and his big brother might not be as familiar with computers and data as Sam was, but he certainly wouldn't take this long. No, something was off. The endless possibilities of what might have happened made Sam unable to move for a second, but the need to find Dean was stronger. Much stronger. He knew what to do. He was a Winchester, after all.

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2005, Indiana, Burkittsville.

There would come a moment, probably in 20 or 30 years ( if he even made it to that age) when he'd look back on this moment and say it was the moment he learned who he really was. A moment in which he got to see inside himself and had learned the truth. One of those life-altering moments Oprah was so fond of discussing.

Now, however, it was just the moment where he was about 2 seconds from giving up all together, let that scarecrow finish him off and let these villagers have their freakin' applepie. It was the moment he thought, no, _knew_, he had nothing to win, because he had nothing to lose. It was the moment he heard the crackling of the trees and bushes around him. Heard footsteps fall heavily onto the earthy ground, coming nearer and nearer. It was the moment he glanced towards Emily, seeing the fear on her face, the look of lost hope in her eyes and found himself unable, unwilling, to do anything about it. It was the moment he knew it was over.

It was in that moment, that the footsteps came around the trees, and the feet who made those steps, were attached not to a fugly scarecrow with a shiny hook, but to long, denimcovered, legs. It was in that moment, that he looked up and saw the weary, floppyhaired head of his little brother run towards him. Felt a hand drop on his shoulder for a second, only to disappear behind his back and start breaking the knots in the rope that bound his hands. He felt the rope give way and he pulled his hand up to his face, then dropped them to rub his wrists. He saw his brother give him a quick once-over, worry, fear and anxiety etched on his face, before hurrying over to the girl near to him, to free her from the ropes as well.

It was then that he caught a glimpse of himself and saw nothing but complete and utter relief. Relief that what he saw before him was real. Relief that who he saw before him was here. Relief that he no longer had to give up.

He looked up and stared at the young man who now stood across from him, staring back with the same intensity, brown eyes wide with a jumble of emotions and he felt his lips form a familiar word he hadn't spoken for too long.

"Sam."

* * *

Thank you for reading.

Reviews are icecream.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Road Ahead.**

Author's note: I really tried to get this posted as soon as I could. Hope you're still with me.

Much thanks to PookbearD, who is currently bowed over the final chapter. Thanks Pook!

I feel I have to say that this was played with after the beta, so if there are mistakes and things you really hate, it's all my fault. Pook tried. I hope this suits you!

* * *

**Chapter 6.**

"Sam."

Dean froze in midmovement and stared numbly at the brother that had just appeared in front of him, after an absence of four years. The thought crept up that he was all just imagining this, an illusion after being alone for so long, after thinking about his litte brother so much, but Sam's very real hands had untied both him and Emily and they were now throwing a gun in his direction, ready to gear up and march on, so the chances of this being nothing more than a mirage were rapidly getting smaller. He decided not to think about how the hell Sam had found him and how he had shown up here and how weird and nauseating and tonguetwisting and amazing it was to see him. That damn scarecrow was still out in these very woods, looking for some human flesh to chow down on. He'd think about everything else later, when they were done here. When Emily was safe and Sam was safe and the monster was dead.

Sam, for his part, was very much concentrating on getting his weapons ready and his brother armed. He was concentrating on the gun he was about to hand his brother because if he didn't, he'd look up again and he'd find Dean's eyes again, like he had just moments before, and then he wouldn't remember what the difference between up and down was and he'd forget how to stand, like he had just moments before and then he'd just maybe fall down and cry and laugh because he finally was where he needed to be. He had finally found his brother. And they had a scarecrow to kill. There really was no place like home.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He sat on the bed, next to his brother, staring ahead without seeing the motelroom that surrounded them. The ugly salmon-coloured walls, the raggety chairs, the painting containing a vague white shape that looked like a ballerina.

He sat on the bed, next to his brother, wishing desperately for Sam to speak. To say something. Ask him something. Let him know what he needed. He had no idea what to say to the brother who had shown up, out of nowhere, after a four-year absence. After Sam had untied him and Emily and they'd torched that damn tree, they had driven the girl straight to the busstation and then Dean had steered the car directly to the motel he'd been staying in. Now, here they sat. Saying nothing. And it was the saying nothing that told Dean that even though he'd been so happy, so relieved to see his little brother he'd almost started bawling like a baby right there in the orchard, and Sam had obviously been just as relieved to see him and even though they were brothers, this whole situation was getting the best of them. In all the times he'd wished for his brother to come back, in all the moments he'd thought of driving out there and look Sam up himself, for all the times he'd wished for nothing more than to see his brother, talk to him a bit, he'd never imagined it could be like this. This...awkward. Because not one time that he'd thought about his brother coming back into his life, he'd considered the fact that maybe his little brother, his Sammy, would be different person. That maybe he'd changed. Like he himself had changed. He'd always just assumed that they'd be fine. They were more than just brothers. They were Dean and Sammy. Sammy & Dean. Nothing could change that.

Right?

"Jessica's dead."

To say the words startled Dean would have been slightly more than an understatement. He turned to track the source of the words, see if they were real, had indeed been spoken.

"What?"

"Jess is dead". As soon as the words left his lips, Sam felt the tears sting, the corners of his eyes burning. He flinched and then blinked frantically, not ready for the tears to fall.

"I came home from the library and she was on the ceiling."

A moment of silence stretched endlessly until Sam filled it again, with words unnessecary, yet vital.

"Like mom."

Dean froze at those words. He shifted slightly, turned his face up towards Sam, dared to look up into glassy, brown eyes and in that second, all of a sudden, everything made sense. Sam's re-appearance, his silence, the sorrow and desperation that not only dominated the look in his eyes, but actually seemed to encompass the air around him. It all made sense now and for Dean it felt like he could sense the air shifting. He could feel the awkwardness that had built a wall between them disappear, he could see the thick shadow that seemed to hide his little brother from him go up in thin air and he once again felt the familiar sensation of being a big brother return to him. He looked over at the bed across from him and saw no longer the grown man his brother had become. Saw no longer the guarded eyes he'd been afraid of seeing. He saw the boy he'd seen 16 years ago, as he'd crept into his big brother's bed after a nightmare, looking for warmth and safety. He saw the boy with the floppy hair that had been afraid of being different. He saw the boy he'd always seen. It was what made all the questions surrounding Sam's statement disappear. He forgot, for the moment being, to ask what Sam had been doing, where he'd been, what the fuck had happened already. He forgot, because, right there, was his little brother. Was a boy who had just seen his girlfriend burn to death, on a ceiling. A boy who had been alone, who had been looking for his big brother, for _him_, and had been dragged back into a life he'd never wanted to be in, in the first place. His little brother had just seen the girl he loved die and he was sitting across from him, trying with all his might not to cry. His eyes cast down, his bottom lip trembling ever so slightly.

It took him all of 3 seconds to get up from the bed he sat on and cross the short distance to the other bed. He sank down next to Sam, so close their legs were touching and he felt Sam's head come down to rest on his shoulder. Felt his younger brother's face press into his neck, felt the wetness of finally released tears prickle his skin. He felt his own arm curl around his brother's back and tighten its hold as soon as he felt Sam relax into it.

There was nothing he could say now. He didn't need words.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The next moment they were both awake for and aware of was the sun sinking into nothingness on a horizon neither of them could see, the sky slowly turning a darker shade of blue. Ready for the night.

Dean had somehow managed to shift his body until his back rested against the headboard. His arm was still wrapped around Sam, who had fallen asleep with his face still pressed into his brother's neck. Both were awake, neither felt ready to move.

But as easy and calming and familiar as it was to lie there, ignoring the world, forgetting their job, forgetting everything, it was a blissful ignorance that would never, could never, stay. Everyone who ever experienced a moment like it knew that it was a stolen moment, fleeting because it was a state of mind that could never last beyond one moment, in which all that was wrong with the world seemed somehow bearable. Fleeting because the moment would pass, the way feelings do, and then the sorrows and fears and worries returned, sometimes tenfold, and the tranquility of the moment before disappated, leaving only the memory of a feeling impossible to simulate. It was Dean who made that realization first. The questions burning on his lips, the worries screaming in his head and the uncertainty of it all taking hold of the peace he'd felt only moments before. His brother had just watched his girlfriend die the exact same way his mother had and he hadn't even known the girl. He knew her name was Jessica. Remembered she was blond, tall, beautiful._ Like mom_.

All the regrets that had been ignored before, pushed to the background by worry and fear, now made their way to the surface. That he hadn' t known this girl who had stolen his brother's heart, that he hadn't been there to stop it, to help. That he hadn't been there when Sam needed him. That his little brother had been alone. That he didn't know what to say. That he wasn't what he was supposed to be. That he'd turned his fucking car around!

"I'm sorry."

_For Jessica. For everything. _

Sam moved slightly, lifted his head, moved to sit up. His legs remained right next to Dean's, just touching. His elbow pricking his big brother's side. He wasn't ready to lose that contact yet. He'd been without for too long.

"I know."

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Breakfast was served (by Dean, who had hurried over to the McDonalds across the street and come back with enough food to serve the rest of the hotel) and eaten in silence, both brothers focused on their own plate and swirling thoughts. They sat across from each other at the raggety plastic table, picking away at what was left of their eggs. It was one of the first actual meals Sam had had since..._it_...happened and Dean only now took the time to notice how bad his brother really looked. The way his hair, always a tad too long, now kept falling into his face, covering his eyes. The way his eyes were set and his mouth was drawn, causing small wrinkles near the corners of his mouth and around his eyes that made his face appear even smaller and paler. He didn't fill out the clothes that he was wearing and he had more than a little stubble on his face. In short, his kid brother looked like hell. Which, considering the fact that that was exactly what he'd been through, maybe wasn't all that strange.

"What happened, Sam?"

He wasn't sure if he was asking about Jessica, or what had happened after, or how he'd gotten to Burkittsville. He'd let Sam decide on that.

"I went home."

Okay.

_What?_

"Excuse me?"

"I went home. To Lawrence."

Lawrence. Sure he did. What the...

"You went to Lawrence." What else did he have to say? What else could he say?

"Yeah."

Okay. Sam was obviously not working with him here. Dean told himself to remain calm, to not yell at his brother, to not yell period. The way he did when things confused him. Scared him.

"Why the hell...why would you go to Lawrence, Sam?"

What could his brother possibly have needed in Lawrence. They hadn't been back there in years.

"I...I had a vision."

_Okay...wha...how...what?!!_

"I'm sorry, you had a what now?"

Surely, Sam had to be kidding. He didn't exactly look like he was kidding, but then, this little brother of his always did have a rotten sense of humour.

"I had a vision. I don't know what else to call it. I saw...I saw a woman. Blond. With kids. She was living in our old house. I didn't know that, right away. 's why I went to see Jim."

_What the fuck...??? __How the hell was he supposed to respond to this?!_

"Wait. You went to see Jim?"

"Yeah. He helped me figure it out. He gave me all these pictures that dad had left behind or something. That's how I figured out it was our old house."

Pictures that dad had...right. Of course. Why would he know that? Why should John ever have told Dean that he'd left pictures and memorabilia of their once so very normal life at Jim's? Why should he tell his son that those things even existed? It's not like John had ever said anything at all. Not about before. Not about his wife. But why hadn't Jim...If Jim had known, then why hadn't he called Dean?

"I asked him not to."

_Shit._ Had he said that last part out loud?

"I know what you're thinking, Dean. He kept telling me to call you. To call dad, but I couldn't. I don't know why. I really don't. I wanted to find you...Jim pushed for it. I just didn't listen."

A half smile formed on Dean's mouth. In spite of the story Sam was spinning, in spite of the disbelief, the confusion, the anger, he felt he was slowly getting his brother back. With each word Sam said, he recognized more of the boy he'd raised. He'd always felt that way, he realised. Though he wasn't a big talker himself, he loved to listen to his brother talk. It calmed him down, chased away the dark thoughts that crept up to him every now and then. A silent Sam, one that kept his feelings to himself, was something he didn't know how to respond to, how to deal with. In the few times Sammy had not talked to him, had not shared his feelings, he'd felt out of place, out of sync. No matter how bad things were, no matter how screwed up they were, as long as Sam talked to him, he felt at home. He felt like a brother. He felt like himself.

"What happened next?"

"I drove to Lawrence. I took Jess' car. Her parents...they gave it to me, said they weren't gonna use it... Jim offered to come with but I turned him down."

"You turned him down? You went up there by yourself? Sam, are you crazy?!"

"I guess. I just felt I had to do it alone. Anyway, doesn't matter because when I got there, there was a woman waiting for me. Missouri? She's a friend of dad's, apparently. She already knew what was going on, she's a psychic or something, she helped me find out how to get rid of what was in that house."

"What was in that house?"

"Spirit. Poltergeist."

"You got rid of it?"

"Yeah. No big deal, really. I spent the night at Missouri's and I left the next morning."

"And you came here? How did you..."

"Dad."

"Dad?!"

"Yeah. I didn't talk to him directly, of course. Missouri, she gave me a phone, right before I left. Told me dad had asked her to get me a phone and that he'd contact me soon. I wasn't even well on the road yet and..."

"Coordinates."

It wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

This was too much. How was he supposed to handle this? His dad was okay, apparently. Not that he'd let them know face to face. Or voice to voice, fot that matter.

His brother, who had been at school for the past 4 years, who he hadn't seen for the last two, had been back on the road, back _hunting_, for the past week because he'd lost his girlfriend and then he'd had a vision and he'd gone back to their old house, where their mother had been killed just like Sam's girlfriend and then their father, who had just disappeared, had left Dean without a clue had sent him to freaking Burkittsville (and he didn't even want to think about what would have happened if he, Dean, hadn't been here, hadn't turned his car around) and now he was sitting here telling him all that like it didn't matter that all of it had happenen and Dean hadn't been there.

He needed air.

Actually, he needed a drink, but air would have to do.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He was leaning against the hood of the Impala, which really meant he was sitting down, and stared at the hotelroom he'd walked out of only a few moments before. How was he supposed to act now. What was he supposed to do?

What was he supposed to think? He was feeling too much and he didn't know how to translate those feelings into words, coherent thoughts. Fear, anger, worry, panic, resentment, relief, happiness. They all fought for dominance, but not one seemed to win.

He had been away for so long. Had been alone for so long. How was he supposed to be a brother again? He'd always thought he knew exactly how to take care of his little brother but he felt unsure now. Lacking. He wasn't this kid's brother. He didn't know anything. And yet he did. He knew the look on this boy's face and the pain in his eyes. He knew the way his bottom lip trembled and he knew that choked up voice. The tilt of his head and the shaggy hair that never ceased to get out of his eyes. He knew everything and yet he didn't feel up to the job of being the big brother. Didn't trust himself to be. He didn't know how to be this Sam's brother, yet.

So how could he help him? How could he do anything right? He'd been Sam's big brother for 18 years, and he'd thought he'd done it right but he'd left. He'd thought he'd been a good son to his father, but he'd left too. Who was he supposed to be and how could he get it right? If he made the wrong move, said the wrong thing, would Sam leave again? Would he realize Dean wasn't what he wanted him to be and would he take his car again and take off?

He sat on the hood, the winterair chilling him to the bone and stared at the motelroom he'd left Sam in.

_Sam. _

He'd paid for a motelroom. A motelroom for two, because he'd never gotten used to rooms that held only one bed. He'd paid for two because he couldn't stand being alone. He paid for two now because Sam had come back. His little brother had come back to him and he was sitting outside, on the hood of his car, feeling sorry for himself. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted and he walked away. How could he not know how to help this kid? This kid was his brother. This kid was Sam.

"Sammy."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Just as he was moving to get up and get inside, he saw the door to their motelroom open. The tall figure of his brother emerged and set to walking towards him. Without saying a word Sam took a seat next to Dean.

"Why didn't you call, Sam?"

He'd had to ask. Couldn't not ask.

"I don't know." A sigh, heavy and mournful. "I wanted to. God, Dean. I really wanted to. Right after...right after Jess, all I could think about was you and how I couldn't remember your phone number. All I wanted to do was call you and ask you to come running, but I couldn't remember your number and then the funeral came and...and then I just...took off. I just started driving. I had no idea where I was going. I was gonna find you but I had no clue as to where the hell I was driving and it wasn't until I had that vision that I thought of calling Jim, or Bobby or whatever. The thought of calling them and asking them for your number honestly didn't occur to me until I got to Jim's and he gave me your number and told me to call you. and then I didn't because...It may sound crazy, Dean and you may not get it but...I knew you'd come and I thought, I felt, that I had to go to Lawrence by myself and...and I think I also kept putting it off. Not because I didn't want to talk to you, but...but because I wanted to see you. I really wanted to see you, Dean."

It made sense. In a really twisted, sick, completely incomprehensable way, it made sense.

"So what do you want to do?"

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"So what do you want to do?"

Sam's eyes were right on that moment where you know the tears are gonna spil and there is nothing you can do about it and there's no use in hiding your face, in covering your eyes, because you know that those around you have long seen your eyes get blurry and have only been waiting for you to crack.

At hearing his big brother's words, he did. He let go. And as he felt the first tear hit his cheek, he realised how much he needed his brother. How much he had always needed him. He felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Felt the tightness in his stomach ease and the clouds in his head lift. No mattter how bad things got, no matter how screwed up they were, Dean always, always, there. He might not be able to fix things, might not be able to undo the bad that did, but he knew how to be a brother, Sam's big brother. Always.

"I want to come with you."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

At his brother's answer, Dean felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Felt the tightness in his stomach ease and the clouds in his head lift. He still knew how to do his job. He was still Sam's brother. Always, always would be.

"Alright."

He let out a weary sigh with a grin that didn't fully reach his eys.

"Let's go inside, then, shall we? I'm freezing my ass off out here."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam felt a smile tugging at his lips and got up from the hood of the car at the moment his brother did, grabbing Dean's arm before he got too far ahead, too far away.

"Dean. Thanks."

He looked into his brother's face and saw a smile, one of melancholy and love, reflected in his eyes. He felt Dean's arm come up and ruffle his hair. The way he had done when they were kids and Sam had somehow said something that made his brother look at him the way he was looking at him right now. He leaned into the touch slightly, but soon felt it go down as Dean let his arm rest around his back and pull him towards him hesitantly, but with confidence and determination.

"You're my brother, Sammy. That's all there is to it."

* * *

One more chapter, if you want it. Really just an excuse for some more anger, angst and love. 

Be so kind as to tell me your thoughts?


	7. Chapter 7

The Road Ahead. 

**Author's note**: The final chapter, guys. Thank you very much for sticking with me for so long.

This is the unbeta's version, as my beta **PookbearD** is very busy. As soon as she is done correcting all my mistakes I'll post the polished version. Please forgive all the mistakes, I simply didn' t want to wait any longer. I have learned from this that I will never start posting until a story is completely done and so the new story I'll be posting is actually all done. Again I thank you for your patience.

**For those who were kind enough to review this story and to whom didn't respond: I am very, very sorry and I _will_ respond!**

* * *

Chapter 7. 

Sam had once again taken his seat on the years-old bed, the one furthest from the door, he'd sat on before. Before Dean had left the room and Sam had followed him out into the night, and onto the hood of the Impala.

Before, he'd sat there, unsure of his actions, of how to tell the story that had taken him here and, most of all, unsure of his place.

Now, he sat there watching his brother. He sat and watched Dean rummage through his duffel, moving across the room. He sat and tried to think of an answer to the question he'd been asking himself ever since first setting eyes on his brother, tied to a tree. The question of how the hell he had lived without Dean for so long. Of how the fuck it happened that he hadn't spoken to him in two whole years.

He saw his older brother curse and fuss and finally fishing the first aid kit from under the bed.

"Let's patch you up a bit, huh? You look like roadkill."

Dean grabbed one of the two chairs by the table and dragged it over to face the bed Sam was sitting on. He ordered his brother to take off his shirt and grabbed his arm. Soft and rough at the same time. The way he always did. The way he was.

"How the hell did that thing get you so carved up, Sammy? I'm ashamed for you."

Sam couldn't help but smile as he stuck out his arm and turned slightly to give Dean better access. The familiar tactic of bad jokes and lame insults, used solely to take his mind of the pain of cleaning and stitching, was something he'd often felt grateful for. Today was no exception. He needed the banter, the verbal sparring. He needed it to keep him grounded. To keep himself from falling to his knees and begging for absolution. For forgiveness. Not because he'd left, but because he'd stayed gone. Not for having a life of his own, but because that life hadn't included his brother.

Both were silent as Dean worked and the older man was thankful for it. He didn't think he could say anything at all. Was pretty sure he'd lost the art of speaking the moment he'd grabbed his brother's arm and started cleaning the small cuts. This was familiar territory. _This_, he knew. If he were honest, which he'd never be out loud, he'd have to admit that he was working slower and more careful than needed with small cuts and grazes like these. He was aware of Sam's gaze on him as he took some gaze out of the kit and wrapped it around the taller man's arm. If he were honest, which he'd never be to Sam, he'd have to admit he was overcleaning the small wounds because he just, simply, really did not want to stop touching his brother. He'd barely seen his brother in four years. Had not touched him for just as long. The only physical contact in those years had been Sam's hand on his arm in the hospital two years ago. He didn't want to pull away. He just wanted to revel in the fact that Sam was sitting across from him, waiting patiently till Dean finished.

He had his brother with him and the realisation overwhelmed him, made him almost grab onto the hands he was now cleaning. Made him almost, almost, bring up his own hands to ruffle the lengthy brown hair. How had he survived without him for so long?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

It were Sam's hands that pulled away first, shook the older brother out of his reverie, made him look up to see his hands gripping those of his little brother so tight it was starting to bruise.

"Sorry."

He didn't think his voice had ever been this rough. Dean shook his head to clear his head, regain some balance and quickly finished up his ministrations.

He needed to get himself together.

He got up but, once more, had barely taken a step towards his own bed when Sam's arm grabbed hold of his again.

"What about you?"

He didn't have time for this. He needed a minute to get his bearings. To catch his breath, before he fell apart right here and now. He chose the tactic he'd used so often. He played dumb.

"What about me, what?"

He saw Sam frown, knew his brother remembered this trick.

"What about your bruises? You need..."

This was too much, too soon.

"I'm fine."

He pulled his arm away, careful not to be too rough. He heard Sam sigh, and try to come up with something that wouldn't scare him away. He knew this kid too well.

"You look pretty battered, Dean. I can..."

The kid knew him too.

"I said I'm fine, Sam. I just need a shower."

"But..."

Yeah, the kid knew him, but he didn't get it. Frustration took over and when he spoke, it was with a tone too harsh.

"Jesus, Sam. I said I only need a shower. I need patching up, I'll do it myself."

He threw the kit into his duffel and hurried into the bathroom, closing the door with just a little too much power. He didn't even threw a glance at himself in the mirror, instead turned on the shower full blast. He just needed a minute.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam watched his brother breeze past him into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He mentally hit himself over the head. He should have known better than to try and push his brother. Him forcing Dean into anything at all was risky, and mostly fruitless, on any given day. Trying to do so when he was so obviously struggling to maintain his game-face was downright stupid and he'd been away for so long he didn't really believe he had the right. He didn't have the right to just expect to fall back into what had always been the natural order of things. But the ritual of Dean patching up his wounds, striking at him with silly remarks, created only to soothe his nerves, had apparently done just that.

He needed to be a bit more careful, needed to remind himself that although Dean had tried to take up the role of the big brother the best he could, had done what he could to put Sam at ease, he was in no way assured of a place in his big brother's life. He had to keep in mind that he'd been away for four years, had been off living the life he'd so desperately wanted while Dean had been on the road, doing exactly what he himself had escaped from: saving people, hunting things. The family business.

He needed to remember that although they were, and would always be, brothers, he wasn't Sammy anymore, and they were nowhere near where they used to be.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean sat on the closed toiletlid and watched the water run. He ran a hand through his short hair and closed his eyes. It had been more than a minute and he knew Sam had to be worried, not to mention anxious but he wasn't ready to go back out there yet. He needed a bit of time to get his act together, to clear his mind, come up with a plan of approach. He knew his brother needed guidance right now, needed to be around somebody that knew him. As a child, Sam had questioned their life but he'd always come looking for his big brother whenever something had upset him, whenever he'd felt wronged. As a teenager, he'd raged against their nomad existence and the authorative way of John Winchester and had closed himself of more and more but still he needed Dean to set him straight when his beliefs shook and when he'd finally announced he was leaving for Stanford he'd asked Dean for support before he'd told his father in no uncertain terms that he could take care of himself. And then he'd left and he _had _taken care of himself. He had found his applepie life and he hadn't called on Dean, but now, as always when his world shifted and he lost faith in whatever good he believed in, his independent stance crumbled and he once again looked to his brother for guidance. And Dean wasn't sure he could give it.

Even thinking those words made him want to smash his reflection in the already cracked bathroommirror . Wasn't this what he'd wished for these past four years? Hadn't he wanted his brother back? He had no purpose if he wasn't Sammy's big brother and not ever had he felt as lost as he had done those four years. The truth of the matter made him want to run and hide. It made him want to gauge his own eyes out.

He was scared.

He was scared shitless.

When he'd sat there just now, patching up his brother, falling back into the familiar swing of things, he'd realised something he hadn't ever thought about in all the times he'd wished for his brother to come back. He knew the power Sam had over him, even if Sam didn't. He knew exactly just how far he'd go, how much he needed him. He needed his brother more than even _he_'d known. Those last four years were one big blur of faces, monsters and motelrooms. No day different from the other. No memories. Nothing. Completely empty hours of absolutely nothing. He loved his father. He wanted, really desperately wanted the man around but Sam...Without Sam life was so empty it was scary. But that wasn't the case for Sam. Sam _had_ lived. He had made memories that would last him forever. Better memories than those 18 years with his family had ever given him and that knowledge shook Dean more than he would ever care to admit. Because he knew, with every fibre of his being, that if Jessica hadn't died, Sam wouldn't be here right now. Wouldn't be sitting on that bed asking him if he was alright. He wouldn't be here at all. He would be sitting at home, in Palo Alto, curled up with his girlfriend, studying. He wouldn't be here telling Dean he needed patching up. Dean would be here alone, patching himself up. The way he'd done for the past four years. The truth was that, as painful as it had been, Dean had gotten used to being alone. He'd hated every minute, had wished for his brother every day, but he'd done it. If he took Sam with him now, how long would it take to make Sam rebel against their life again. How much time would pass until he left again?

He wanted his brother to be happy even more than he wanted him around and Big Brother Dean, who wanted his little brother's happiness more than anything else, always won out. Always would, but this time he couldn't help but stop at himself for a fraction of a second. He had to stop and face the real question: would he survive again?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He stepped out of the bathroom and Sam knew immediately that the soft, almost gentle touches, the vulnerability that had been there only moments before were gone and that Dean's mask was back in place.

"How did you know where to find me?"

The question, gruffly spoken, didn't surprise the younger brother. He'd expected Dean to ask this sooner or later. He'd known he'd have to have this talk. He'd just hoped he'd have some more time. Trying to buy himself some, he purposefully misunderstood the question.

"I told you, Dad sent me the coordinates and..."

Dean clearly wasn't in the mood for his brother's evasive tactic, unwilling to give him the time he was asking for, he growled.

"I mean the orchard. You showed up out of nowhere. How did you know I was there?"

Sam sighed deeply and straightened his shoulders. He might as well get it over with.

"When I got to town, I talked to the Jorgesons and I went over to the college to research. When I came out, I saw the Impala standing in the parkinglot. I figured maybe you'd still be inside but you didn't show and I didn't...I didn't want to take any risks. I knew the deal about the pagan God and if you were in trouble..."

He sighed again and looked his brother in the eye.

"I decided I'd take the Impala and go look for you, so I called the mechanic and had them tow my car. I figured if they thought I was having cartrouble, they'd also wouldn't expect me to go anywhere. So they took my car and I broke into the Impala and drove back to town to look for you."

"And you went out there, hunting for a scarecrow on a killing spree, _alone_?"

Sam was getting impatient. He knew he owed his brother some answers, but he wasn't exactly new to this. He knew how to handle himself.

"_You_ did."

He heard Dean take a breath and saw him clench his fists. Apparently, his big brother wasn't getting the answers he wanted.

"It's my job, Sam."

This conversation was all too quickly turning into a discussion he seriously could do without.

"I can take care of myself, Dean. It was my job too, once."

"Yeah, exactly. Once. You've been out of the game for four years, Sam. You could have gotten yourself killed, taking on that thing. What were you thinking?!"

How could Dean ask him that question, seriously?

"I was thinking about you, actually. I didn't really stop to think about the possible danger. I just knew my brother might be in trouble."

He noticed Dean turning directly towards Sam, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Are you sure that's really it, Sam? Are you sure you didn't just rush ahead because of everything that had happened? I mean, not that I don't appreciate the help, but you weren't exactly forthcoming the past couple of years."

Nice. He should have seen this coming. After all, this is what his brother did, whenever he felt trapped, lost control of the situation, didn't see a way out.

"Why the hell didn't you call me, Sam?"

They were going in circles. This was no use. Sam told himself to remain calm. That he owed his brother an answer.

"I told you..."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. It didn't occur to you till you hit Jim's. So why didn't you just call after that?"

_Stay calm. This is how he deals with things. You know him. Stay calm. _

"I told you, I had to do it alone."

"Right. You had to go to Lawrence and exorcise a freaking poltergeist from our old house and you didn't think that maybe I would have liked to know? Do you know what could have happened to you?"

He might have been away for four years, but he knew his brother well enough to know that there was no right answer to this.

"Dean, I know. But I..."

"And what if I hadn't been here? Or you wouldn't have found me, or I'd already taken care of that scarecrow? What then? You would have just kept on driving until you happened to run into me?"

There was no right answer to this one either. The truth would have to do and he would just have to take whatever Dean wanted to lash out.

"No. I don't... I don't know, Dean. Okay? I don't know. But that didn't happen."

Apparently, this wasn't enough for Dean. Sam knew his brother was only seeing what _could_ have happened, instead of what had.

"Yeah, but what if you hadn't? You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for Jess, Sam. how am I supposed to react to this? How am I supposed to know what you want?"

Didn't Dean get it? He didn't have to know the answers. He just had to be there.

"I just told you; I want to come with you."

He watched as his brother turned angrily away from him, frustration rolling off of him in waves.

"You want to come with me. Yeah, so you said. But why, Sam? Why would you want to do that. You need to not be alone, you need to find dad, to be around family, whatever, I get that. Why the hunting? Why did you go back to Lawrence, why did you come here?"

He really wanted this conversation to end in the worst, worst way. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to think about anything beyond today. Not now that he had finally found steady ground.

"Same reason you are. Because dad sent me those coordinates."

Dean clearly wasn't feeling the same way.

"Right. And since when do you do what dad says? It's not the same, Sammy. Why would you want to go back into hunting all of a sudden? You want to know what killed Jessica? You want to find dad and join in on his obsession now, is that it? Because I don't know where dad is, Sam. I can't help you there."

His brother didn't get it. He really didn't.

"You don't need to...that's not..." He took a breath and started over: "That's not why I'm here, Dean. I mean, yeah, I want to know what happened to Jess and to mom and I want to find dad. I've got to. But that's not why I'm here. I don't know why I followed those coordinates. I guess I thought I'd find you here. I'm not sure why, who knows, Dean. But I'm here now."

Where were these words going? With every sentence, he felt Dean stepping away from him.

"Yeah, but for how long? You wanted that normal life. You wanted safe. This is your chance, Sam. This is it. You don't have to get back into all this. You don't have to be a hunter to find dad. You can still have that normal life. Take a break. Go find dad. We can do it together. You don't have to get back into all of this."

It was his own fault, he thought, as he looked down at the floor, tears once again burning in his eyes. He hadn't told his brother anything. Not really. He'd just shown up and let himself be comforted by Dean's presence. Expected to be welcomed.

"What do you really want, Sam? Because I know it's not this. I know this isn't what you want to do. You have a reason right now. You're in pain, you're grieving, I get that. Rushing back into this life is not the solution."

He needed to end this. Now. Before he was gonna fall to his knees and beg.

"Dean..."

But the older man wasn't listening anymore. Was having this conversation all by himself now.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, Sam."

This wasn't...he couldn't do this. He couldn't hear these words.

"Dean..."

He figured his voice must have given away his internal turmoil because Dean whipped his face around to Sam and stilled. Without stopping to pause and register the pain and regret etched into Dean's features, he stumbled forward, desperate to get the words out, to clear the air.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

He heard rather dan saw Dean swallow.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I left and that I didn't call. And that I never called from Stanford and that I'm here now. I'm sorry. Just...don't do this, Dean. Don't tell me to leave. I know I was an ass and that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Jess but...I need to be here, Dean. I...I need to be around you right now. "

It took all of Dean's willpower not to absolutely break into nothing at the sound of his brother's broken voice. At the desperate, fearful look in his eyes. How had he gotten things so incredibly screwed up? Here he was, projecting his own fear, his own stupid issues, on his little brother. Here he was making his brother feel quilty for things he had no business feeling guilty for. He was making him apologize for things that were nowhere near his fault and he was making him fear things he never should fear for even a second.

"Sam." He shook his head. He didn't know how to make himself clear to his brother. How was he gonna tell him that he was scared, actually scared, of letting him down, of not being the brother Sam deserved, of being left alone. How was he gonna say such things to someone who had just lost his girlfriend, who had come to find him, who had just said he wanted to come with him?

"Look, Dean..."

"Sammy. You have nothing to apologize for." He saw Sam open his mouth, probably in protest and held up his hand to silence him.

"No. You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. You hear me? I'm being an ass, okay? And I'm sorry. There's no question of me sending you away Sam, of me walking away. You know better." Right there, he knew he wasn't gonna share the reasons for his behaviour, wasn't gonna further burden his brother with issues not his own.

"I...I just want to be sure that you know what you're doing, that this is what you really want."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam looked into his brother's eyes. Not upto them, searching for safety, love, acknowledgement, support or any other thing his brother always provided. No, this time, he really looked. He looked without expectations, without judgement and what he saw stole his breath away, made him ache in places he didn't think could ache anymore than they already did, broke his heart into even tinier pieces. Dean was scared. He didn't think he'd ever really seen Dean scared. He was sure there must have been times he was but he never showed it. Or he just hadn't looked hard enough. Not that Dean was purposely showing it right now. He would never do that in front of his little brother. He was still Dean, after all. But looking into Dean's eyes, opened his own and it got through to Sam suddenly what his showing up must have done to his big brother. He never thought about what it would mean for Dean, if he showed up, telling his story (and not even the whole story), looking for help, for guidance. He had just assumed that Dean would handle it, without shock or fear or doubt, because that's what Dean did, always had done. He realised now that his sudden return had probably stirred some emotions for Dean as well. Being the person that he was, the big brother that he was, he would never tell Sam that, would never want to bother him with trivialities like his feelings, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Now was living proof. Sam stared up into the familiar green depths and saw everything he was feeling reflected back at him. The fear, the worry, the anger and the confusion. The need, the doubt, the love and the uncertainty. The uncertainty of them. Of him. of their brotherhood. He had been afraid Dean wouldn't want him here, wouldn't want him hunting, would send him away in a few days, maybe weeks. He understood suddenly that those fears were not his alone. Dean might be feeling them too. What if Dean was afraid that he didn't want to come, that he was only doing this out of desperation, that he was acting on a whim, an impulse. What if Dean was scared that he didn't want to come hunting, that he'd condemn him for doing his job, that he wouldn't want to deal with it and what if Dean was fearing his leaving as much as he was fearing Dean's? What if Dean was just as scared of seeing his brother walk away as he was? What if Dean really needed him as much as he needed Dean? He needed to say something. He needed to make him understand that although he was unsure about a lot of things, whether or not he needed to be with his brother wasn't one of them. Today's events made that sharp cut clear.

Even the vaguest hint of a thought about walking away, about driving away from the man that was, had always been, his home, his centre and his core cut through him with the clear cut of a machete. He'd done without him for four years. He'd never do without him again. Whether his brother wanted him around or not, he was going to stay. He'd do whatever it was that Dean deemed necessary. Whatever it was that would make Dean forgive him, whatever it was that would make him stay. Walking away from him now would be the death of him. He knew now that those past days of driving, the events in Lawrence, had merely been pointing him here. Had been leading him here, emotions running without being noticed so that, upon arrival, he'd be able to say he knew at least one thing for certain. He'd never stopped being Sammy. He'd never stopped needing his brother. And he'd never walk away again.

Sam didn't know how his body kept still, because his mind was cartwheeling out of control. One realisation after the other hit and he found himself floundered by what his brother's eyes had told him. Everything in the past weeks, months, years, flew by him and he was astounded at what the insights that had never in those years occured to him, suddenly meant. Because this was it. This was the moment in which he had to decide. To make the ultimate choice. One that would determine who he was and who he would be for the rest of his life. He understood now that this choice had always been his and his alone. Dean had never walked away from him, had never turned his back on him and left him to fend for himself. Even in school, he had never been without Dean, for he'd known Dean would come running as soon as Sam called. But Dean _had_ been without Sam. _He _had been alone. He hadn't had the assurance that, would he be needed, Sam would come to his aid. And today, he had the choice to make. Stanford had merely been a break. A phase. Now came the final decision. If he was really done with his family, if he really wanted away from them and have the normal life, then he had to walk away right now. He'd walk away and Dean would never darken his doorstep again, unless asked to. He'd never hear a pleading word and he'd never get a phonecall requesting his appearance. He'd be by himself, away from the Winchester way of life. Just like he'd always wanted.

Or he'd stay. He'd be back in it. He'd have his brother's back and he would do his job. It was one or the other and it was now or never. Now came the real choice. One that would set the track for the rest of his life from here on out. Was he in, or was he out?

It was this moment of staring into his brother's eyes that he knew there had never been a choice. Never been a question. Dean had never called upon him, allowing him the illusion of a choice. Now, however, his brother gave him the choice, unable to put it off any longer. And because of that, he realised there was no choice. This was his brother, his protector, his childhood and his home.

He took a breath and sealed the deal.

"I'm with you. I'm with you, now."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

He felt like he'd somehow stepped away from himself, away from them and was now witnessing the situation from afar. He heard his brother say the words but he couldn't react because his mind wasn't done processing the information.

_I'm with you, now. _

They were guilt-laced words, coated with a layer of fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of not being forgiven. Of not being accepted back into his brothers life. Yet, they were clearer than any of the words Sam had spoken up until now.

_I'm with you,_ _now. _

They were a question and a promise in one.

_Oh, Sammy, you don't get it. You were always there. _

He didn't have an answer. There had never been a question. It always had been, and forever would be, Sam's choice.

_I'm with you, now._

Grabbing the handles of both their duffels, he walked out of the door and towards his car. He saw Sam appear in the doorway, assessing the situation curiously as he opened the trunk. He threw the bags and saw them land where they belonged; next to each other. One incomplete without the other. He felt a grin tuck at the corners of his mouth and looked up, staring straight into his brother's eyes. He saw Sam smile back hesitantly and closed the trunk.

"Well, then. We've got work to do."

* * *

That's it, folks. I sincerely thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. 

I hope everybody has an amazing Christmas and an even better New Year!

(I myself am leaving for New York right after Christmas and I'll be spending New Year's Eve there. Any tips, hints, do's or don'ts?)

Holly


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